White dress tucked beneath the fine mess,
here eyelids are timeless,
covering up the cold sweat and silence.
Why this,
actions speak louder than words,
and judging by the verbs you use we're running out of turns.
Look left,
turn right and maybe I'm still here.
But there's the re-occuring fear,
the one you love will finally disappear.
Yes,
fly like a bird with wings strong and sober,
her heart is like a badly wounded soldier.
No steady rhymes or happy times console her.
How do you make money out of madness?
You can't,
it's only sadness that last the stands, tragic.
Write a story of a clipped winged,
mocking bird with the urge to sing but stumbles on the words,
stumbles on the words.
Play games until the sunsets,
upset,
visualize the tight grip and soft breaths,
the melancholy of time spent.
How do you turn the words to fire?
A liar will prosper,
while the guilty party sits there with their souls worn like attire.
Melody's wreck the brain to make it feel plain,
ranging from ok to insane and I can't bring myself to spell the name.
Blame game dame,
trying to conceal her heavy eyes,
too many tries to get the one she wants to hold her high.
It's too late,
too sorry,
too mistaken.
She was a little late but treated the invitation like it was forsaken.
Now where to walk to?
There's no street lights here.
No desire to run away,
no desire to reappear.
Nothing is what she wanted and that's exactly what she got,
now she wish she made a decision instead of standing in one spot.
Decimation,
the feelings can't be put on paper.
She wonders why bother cause no one will read it later.
Just a simple face, solid mine slowly running out of time,
wishing there was a pill that made the melody sound fine.
Too late,
too stuck up,
too stuck on memories,
while the memories haunt and postpone the proper remedy.
Remember me?
No please, I'd rather you just forget.
I'm a nothingness that just happened to fall out of bed.
Bled out and pinned up,
my eyes are glued ten times shut,
fingers still gripping the container that was stranger than danger.
----
Who listens to the wind in the trees?
Now me, I enjoy the sense of something being free.
A constant spilling spree of gust through thick hair,
a small stare to show I'm here but not really there.
Pulled out the frown like a hand me down.
Do I want to wear this once again?
Will you come back my friend?
I need your help in self help through the knowledge that you lend,
though we're both dead end and on the mend,
you can see it in my skin.
It takes just a brush of touch to explain my bad luck.
Our eyes whisper when we shut up.
It's hard to explain but it's known,
that the cold set it in stone.
Silly putty Sally can't get herself straight.
She's all self debate on if she needs a new mate,
a new slate to write on,
a new chapter to take pride upon,
something better than waiting for the weather to stop sending sun.
---
I'm getting really tired of this.
Why bother loving someone.
Why bother loving.
Why sit and talk and communicate the hate?
Why sit there solemn faced while they rape the human race?
WHY BOTHER!?
Yeah, maybe I'm talking to you.
Or maybe I'm talking to me.
Fuck it all I need a moment just to breathe.
Flee the situation that converts this subtle nation to a vacation spot for the dwellers of lower vocation.
Fucken fuck fuck fuck.
---
