You,
you are an artist,
a tangible artist,
artistic in style,
artistic in temperament,
you are strung upon a knife edge,
above the deep blue sea,
and your tongue,
it rolls from day to day,
sometimes painting silver,
sometimes painting gold,
getting more profound,
as your body's getting old,
and as you're getting older,
find you're getting colder,
the world is weighing heavy,
upon your precious shoulders,
life it lost it's magic,
or at least for you it did,
as you wallow in your not wanting love scenario,
on the dark side of the moon,
that's slugged out of a bottle,
once the bottle was that of a baby,
tender, delicate, satisfying milk,
now the satisfaction bottle is brimmed with whisky,
your rose coloured spectacles became broken,
smashed to pieces on the bedroom floor,
as you sit and sob for lost love,
like the one you had before,
and why do you cry?
the whisky did it,
it made you sob as you wanted more,
whisky,
pure moonshine made you,
your mother's lovely *****.
(C) Livvi