Written By: Sage Francis
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Verse One:
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The weak link is quivering...determining the chain's strength/
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Wimpering...VIBRATING...the wave length/
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of its stress signals are more or less symbols. It just trembles/
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Knowing it'll take the weight when the chain breaks and disassembles/
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See Mr. Wendell? He knew nothing of this daily struggle/
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Sit under the disfunctional family tree and prepare for trouble/
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Could barely hear the mumbles beneath the ear peircing rumbles/
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Sharp tongues slashing mouths while lashing out with verbal belt buckles/
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Friends crumble under similar circumstances within their own chain of events/
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>From Sloppy knots in family ties. The pain is intense/
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The tension is thick. Two sided arguments are upsetting to him/
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Stretching the link. testing its endurance and spreading it thin/
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TREMBLING...holding onto what's familia in the Italian sense and reading intense drafts/
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by Sylvia Plath/
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Breaking off into an unfamilliar path/
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Divert the hurt by faking coughs, trying to act silly and laugh/
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Making light of situations when I sense a panic attack/
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I'm a fully licensed self-defense machanic, and my toolbelt is black.
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She probably thinks I'm dead.
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She's probably dead.
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When he left she said I was so strong, I know she's wrong...
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I need back support. My knees fold.
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Please hold your end of the bargain when I leave home.
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Please hold the keystone.
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Verse Two:
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The weak link is feeling emense stress from a tense situation,
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stretching out in every direction and visibly shaken.
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Its mistaken as durable, listen...
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its just the circumstance that has it standing in a verticle position.
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Hurting from the friction of abrasive personal differences.
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People lose their grip when hands slip, and it gets worse when fingers give.
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The Lying Tamer is in the middle of the three-ring-circus. "Bring the kids!"
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Hanging by the last string it swings.
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Cling to live. Strain to see. Gasp to breathe.
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The father figure is...breaking free...he has to leave.
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I figure its...making me...want to pass the seeds.
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The baby sitter grins...vacantly...lying in dead grass and leaves,
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Laughing at trees. They hold their own.
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Forbidden fruit of their manual labor pains don't fall far from their home.
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Every autumn calls for another poem devoted to growing old.
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Every winter seems to get colder and colder...its that same old story overtold.
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Let go of your hold...become a missing link in the chain effect.
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Out on the open road...kids'll think you became a wreck.
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When hopeless souls begin to sink and disconnect
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its just a release.
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Its such a relief.
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Sometimes, we need to be alone.
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But please hold your end of the bargain when I leave home.
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Please hold...the keystone.
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The Weak Link
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Sage Francis |