the sun flickers upon his hand
and thoughts of the past flicker upon his mind
no time there is for school or band
when sadness, lies, and regrets are behind
freedom from all thoughts is his prayer
but that is not possible for now
he fears this time he can not bare
but he must trust Him somehow?
the pink gloves rest softly on the table
And the sun drifts softly across the heart unstable
i can't shake off
the iridescent stains
of your memory,
i tried to paint them
and sew them into
gloves so that maybe
my hands won't
always be so cold
without your hands
to hold them,
but the reality is the
fact that i'm not staying
and you're not coming
back. i just wonder
if your hands are
The palms of my hands,
Caught all my tears,
And the tiring skin,
Betrays my fears.
May know my skin,
Though my gloves,
Hold them then,
And feel me shake,
Don't let me think,
While I lie awake.
I'll let you guide me,
And let you trace,
The footsteps I,
Could never face.
Please pull me free,
With your perfect touch,
And show me how,
To be in love.
She gave me gloves.
Sapphire lets call her
I loved how she would
roll her eyes close
whenever i swore louder
or when i-
being in the mood
of being an arrogant snob
Told me to be, mean
and so vicious
But Lady Sapphire is kind as the
depth of the ocean and nice
as the sugar and spice
of a confused fangirl,
Who i believe
is precious as the rock
i name her from
This house is burning straight to the ground
And all you can think about
Is that you're "cold now that all the sweaters are destroyed"
"But the embers look beautiful floating by my face."
I guess you took a few too many pills,
And I didn't take quite enough.
It wasn't the flames of justice that engulfed our house.
But it doesn't really matter.
Because that house was not a home.
A home is where I live with someone I love.
So that house was not a home.
Because I didn't love you.
I loved your hips and you tits.
I fucked you and you made me drinks when I got back from work.
I never loved you.
I started the fucking fire to get a rise out of you.
You still don't care.
At least I made you fucking shiver a little.
Like that counts for shit.
Pure cane sugartar that sits on teeth,
sits on a canine porch swing
and swings too far, kicking the enamel
siding, wood knots, and greying-thin
windows. More exposed than Brad
Pitt's marriage or JonBenét Ramsay
on the cover of Old World News Daily
in the dentist's office. And there we
are. We're bleached white and burning
beneath paparazzi bulbs and a
a murder case. Brief case money/
two thousand fourteen and it's still
relevant, still useful blood money.
Novocain lightning flash; burn a tree.
Cali home tucked behind parsley
palms. Fortune teller, baby, O.J. didn't
do it. Not The Juice, not him.
The gloves. The gloves. The gloves.
Comfort of picket fence rainbrushed
paint stripping. Raymour retail
of a mocha-cushion couch half-off
'cause the back's spattered with
toothpaste and taxpayer juice
like Grandma's cancer handbag.
Put your feet up, stay a while.