I've been running from my troubles
But its harder than it seems
I've been bathing in the rivers
To wash this sinner clean
I've got chaos in my blood
And all I do is bleed
Tried to save the dying woods
I did plant a thousand seeds
But the forrest is dead
try to wash my hands, the rivers going red
And I'm a child of the night
living days in the sun
Starving for a bite
Spent a living on a gun
I've been growing out a garden
From the hollows of my bones
My body rotting benethe the steady oak
But the birds will keep me clean
And the ocean turned red again
time to go to bed again
I'll drag my corpse back home
Oh, the trouble I have seen
Nov 19, 2017
Nov 19, 2017 at 8:10 PM UTC
People
Have told me
that loneliness is a heavy thing
That it sits in your lungs
It ways you down, dragging you
But my loneliness is a bird
And it lifts me
It lives in my hollow bones
I am traped in an empty sky
The strom pushes me higher
Further from the ground
And I am lost to the night
Forgotten again
Nov 19, 2017
Nov 19, 2017 at 1:51 AM UTC
I watch a moth above an open fire.
It must be well known that moths use the stars to navigate home
that they may often mistake a streetlight or torch for one.
and as I watch it fly through the flames
again and again
burning away its paper wings
I wonder how easy it must be
to mistake the scorching heat to the warmth of a star
to think that
maybe,
if you flew close enough,
theses flames might take you home.
Mar 27, 2016
Mar 27, 2016 at 12:49 AM UTC
thin glass, brittle straw
heavy hands and slamming doors.
bruised knees, always mending
like love and poetry
always better at ending.
Mar 26, 2016
Mar 26, 2016 at 12:39 AM UTC