So turn up the mic, I've got to say something.

It's always strange, the airport. A bit like Heaven, I think. Nobody wants to look you in the eye. Except the little kids, they can't stop looking. Then their parents tug them away. Used to make me feel awkward, I remember.

To you lightweights, stepping aside as I'm coming. Those people in the street, that panic and start running.

Used to change out of it, I remember. Now I don't bother.

Open my mind, summon the rhythm of thumping, syllables in my chest, heart pumping

One form. So you all can see what I am.

Promise to rip the shades off and let the sun in, I'm sick of these dark ways

"Attention … " Attention, these damn announcements always say, attention.

We march to the drumming

Yeah, jump when they tell us they want to see jumping

fuck that, I want to see some fist-pumping

Drones, stand there, go through the motions – No, risk something, say something you know they might attack you for –

Because I'm sick of being treated like I have before. To those looks in their eyes – like I'm sick of standing for what I'm standing for. Up for the desiccated and abandoned poor.

Like this war's just another brand of war.

Like they understand me, in the back of the jet. Can't even put gas in my tank – and these fuckers are laughing, grinning like the goddamn Cheshire Cat, telling me to have some compassion and have some respect. For a guy so nervous, in an obvious way, stuttering and mumbling – what did he say?

Amen. Amen.

Back in the real world, still can't get away – it's on T.V. all the time, all the talking heads can talk about. Voices in my mind, whispering. I'm like a dead person, in my living room watching, even laughing – because when it gets tense, I know what might happen –

The world's a cold place, the bold men take action.

– and you have to react, just to get blown into factions.

Ten years old,

Even in dreams,

Ten years old, something to see.

Another kid like me, dragged under a Jeep. Taken and bound, and found later under a tree – I wonder if he thought the next one could be me?
Kid, do you see? The soldiers that are out today. To brush the dust with bulletproof vests away.

It's ironic, right? Because at times like this you pray. But a bomb took out the Mosque yesterday.

These fuckers. Those fuckers. Give them a box, a cellphone and they'll blow you up.

Bomb, bombs. Bombs in the bikes, buses, roads. Bombs in the markets, buildings, shops, clothes.

How could you do this?

And my dad – he's got a lot of fear, I know. But enough pride inside not to let it show.

To your mother?

My brother, he had a book that he'd hold with pride. A little red cover with a broken spine. And on the back he handwrote a note inside:

"When the rich wage war, it's the poor that die."

Copter blades cut the sky. We leant out to let it, you go.

Meanwhile, back home, he just talks away. Stuttering and mumbling for nightly reels to replay.

And the rest of the world laughing, – what did he say?
And the rest of the world both scared and angry – what did he say?

Amen. Lost souls nod, Amen.

Hands held high, into a sky so blue
as the ocean opens up to swallow you

Amen. Amen.

Hands held high, into a sky so blue
as the ocean opens up to swallow you

Amen.


– Lyrics from Hands Held High, Linkin Park