habitat for angry things
his face is a contortionists wet dream
his fists flex through three hundred versions
of ready but are rendered immaculate by
the thought that binds him to this difficult maze
that there's got to be a way out
there is a light at the end of the tunnel
he suffers from smaller and smaller
versions of self esteem
and as that window slowly closes
his innermost thought is
that someone somewhere holds the key
that somehow at the last possible possum of a second
she will jump out of yonder shrubbery
and save the day
so rather than show the ever watching world
his apparent weaknesses
he will wait for her
reality is playing dead today
and all the goth girls say in
horrible unison
that your cute and all but
i don't date outside my species
could ***** Mae have been less cruel
she wont be coming to save anyone
not even herself
habitat for angry things
his face contorts with the simple pleasures of destruction
and dances with glee over the graves of the once defeated
but in the small hidden room of his soul
he sits in his discomfort chair
and works the meat of his sorrows
with a weeping
a terrible weeping
that fills the cathedral of his hearts broken dream
like a photograph folded in upon itself
one image is the end
one the beginning
but only the blade separates
and that sound of weeping
that awful sound of weeping
that goes on for hours
that goes on for years
benith it is the sound of creatures
that defy
that are unspeakable
sharp little monsters of thought and feeling
that are contortions of rage
etched forever into his soul
he is buried there in the quiet cemetery
with his rages and sorrows replete
with his soul intact
forever to be in that small dark room
working the meat of his regrets
never to know the solace of her hand
never to know the freedom of forgiveness
it is in his hand
in smaller and smaller versions
Sep 24, 2013
Sep 24, 2013 at 11:00 AM UTC
habitat for angry things
his face is a contortionists wet dream
his fists flex through three hundred versions
of ready but are rendered immaculate by
the thought that binds him to this difficult maze
that there's got to be a way out
there is a light at the end of the tunnel
he suffers from smaller and smaller
versions of self esteem
and as that window slowly closes
his innermost thought is
that someone somewhere holds the key
that somehow at the last possible possum of a second
she will jump out of yonder shrubbery
and save the day
so rather than show the ever watching world
his apparent weaknesses
he will wait for her
reality is playing dead today
and all the goth girls say in
horrible unison
that your cute and all but
i don't date outside my species
could ***** Mae have been less cruel
she wont be coming to save anyone
not even herself
habitat for angry things
his face contorts with the simple pleasures of destruction
and dances with glee over the graves of the once defeated
but in the small hidden room of his soul
he sits in his discomfort chair
and works the meat of his sorrows
with a weeping
a terrible weeping
that fills the cathedral of his hearts broken dream
like a photograph folded in upon itself
one image is the end
one the beginning
but only the blade separates
and that sound of weeping
that awful sound of weeping
that goes on for hours
that goes on for years
benith it is the sound of creatures
that defy
that are unspeakable
sharp little monsters of thought and feeling
that are contortions of rage
etched forever into his soul
he is buried there in the quiet cemetery
with his rages and sorrows replete
with his soul intact
forever to be in that small dark room
working the meat of his regrets
never to know the solace of her hand
never to know the freedom of forgiveness
it is in his hand
in smaller and smaller versions
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