On the string of your harp I'm plucked,
With each vibration i'm ******
The melody,
That was played for me,
Has left me **** out of luck.
Each note that's played,
Leaves me skinned and flayed.
The artistry,
in destroying me,
Has me open and displayed.
The oak tree's fallen leaves,
Hit the ground as no one grieves.
The ghost of the air,
With no one to care,
Catches rain from broken eaves.
The song's been written.
The apple's been bitten.
And the Kaleidoscope,
Of ***** and dope,
Is a lifetime lost in quitting.
The sentence is ending,
As the edges are blending.
Some colors for you,
Some reds, some blues,
For hopelessly hoarding or spending.
Mar 9, 2014
Mar 9, 2014 at 5:36 AM UTC
On the string of your harp I'm plucked,
With each vibration i'm ******
The melody,
That was played for me,
Has left me **** out of luck.
Each note that's played,
Leaves me skinned and flayed.
The artistry,
in destroying me,
Has me open and displayed.
The oak tree's fallen leaves,
Hit the ground as no one grieves.
The ghost of the air,
With no one to care,
Catches rain from broken eaves.
The song's been written.
The apple's been bitten.
And the Kaleidoscope,
Of ***** and dope,
Is a lifetime lost in quitting.
The sentence is ending,
As the edges are blending.
Some colors for you,
Some reds, some blues,
For hopelessly hoarding or spending.