near, far, wherever you are
or something something something like that one song said
some swan song for the long gone
their lives no longer drawn on
i'm sat in a dark room, pen in hand
pondering on the whereabouts of my old friends
writing free form poetry about them, behind their backs
but i ain't seen them in years, for all i know they're all dead
the rivers have been dry for decades
the mascara doesn't run for those exempt from life
the heart has already ran on long ago
the mind is always stuck harpooning at the past
piece together the swan song
the lad's best friend was dragged away
years go by without a single thought of him
then it sweeps me off my feet like a mental clothesline
he could be living the dream in australia
or hanging from a tree in his ma's backyard
could've took after his abusive father
wonder if he even remembers who i was
lied about him being murdered to others
somehow it made my sadness feel more real
in retrospect that all made him sound far less real
wonder how he'd react if he knew i did that
he's probably making good use of his time and life
enjoying his days for however long they will last
but here i sit all alone, clock past midnight
writing up a drawn on swan song for the long gone
Apr 11, 2019
Apr 11, 2019 at 9:56 PM UTC
near, far, wherever you are
or something something something like that one song said
some swan song for the long gone
their lives no longer drawn on
i'm sat in a dark room, pen in hand
pondering on the whereabouts of my old friends
writing free form poetry about them, behind their backs
but i ain't seen them in years, for all i know they're all dead
the rivers have been dry for decades
the mascara doesn't run for those exempt from life
the heart has already ran on long ago
the mind is always stuck harpooning at the past
piece together the swan song
the lad's best friend was dragged away
years go by without a single thought of him
then it sweeps me off my feet like a mental clothesline
he could be living the dream in australia
or hanging from a tree in his ma's backyard
could've took after his abusive father
wonder if he even remembers who i was
lied about him being murdered to others
somehow it made my sadness feel more real
in retrospect that all made him sound far less real
wonder how he'd react if he knew i did that
he's probably making good use of his time and life
enjoying his days for however long they will last
but here i sit all alone, clock past midnight
writing up a drawn on swan song for the long gone
some form of stream of consciousness from a tired state of mind, maybe it makes sense or something
