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ashby-brownPoems
Almost two years and These streets are heavy while letting me In on the secret I came here for The streets whisper, "There isn't one. Move on. Move out." We aim to do so Let down is not the right phrase Let go is more like it Some days you try harder at love Then others And sometimes Those days Are the better one's Forgetting love You forget reasons for living You forget about the dualism of life And can breathe for a bit Not sounding like gasping Happiness gets easier They tell me Melancholia is an oil spill Whose scent and touch Can never fully be washed away Like the blood of a ****** Or the acts of a lover cheating How we Carry our wounds Through life Like baggage full of old clothing We just can't seem to part with Where's the money coming from? Where's the free time? Is that the sound of the noon-day chimes? And the party lights are dimming As my soul quivers in this moonlight Like a glass of fresh beer over the brim spilling Dusk falls, the trees waver, the field awaits the killing As the maid at dinner slaves preparing Absent in mind Absent in heart The *** all alone Pushes along his cart
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Feb 12, 2013
Feb 12, 2013 at 1:22 AM UTC
Carrying Wounds
Almost two years and These streets are heavy while letting me In on the secret I came here for The streets whisper, "There isn't one. Move on. Move out." We aim to do so Let down is not the right phrase Let go is more like it Some days you try harder at love Then others And sometimes Those days Are the better one's Forgetting love You forget reasons for living You forget about the dualism of life And can breathe for a bit Not sounding like gasping Happiness gets easier They tell me Melancholia is an oil spill Whose scent and touch Can never fully be washed away Like the blood of a ****** Or the acts of a lover cheating How we Carry our wounds Through life Like baggage full of old clothing We just can't seem to part with Where's the money coming from? Where's the free time? Is that the sound of the noon-day chimes? And the party lights are dimming As my soul quivers in this moonlight Like a glass of fresh beer over the brim spilling Dusk falls, the trees waver, the field awaits the killing As the maid at dinner slaves preparing Absent in mind Absent in heart The *** all alone Pushes along his cart
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ashby-brown
Feb 12, 2013
Feb 12, 2013 at 1:22 AM UTC
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