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frances-lazarus-blackheartPoems
Body: Pinups and post adolescent boys screaming turbulence strung out in my room, days for ever growing more jaded what ever that means, surely these things, will rip my heart out get back to my head, share anything, better make my head feel still Reading in the blue light that is a broken hearted city passing by without it all , skylines for side views, heading south, away from it when will it all mean surely nothing, will it rip my head out get back to my bed, share anything, better make my bed feel here Thankful for all the things i get wrong that i still feel in the day you out there, somewhere doing good , filling the world with so much hope where age means nothing, and you can marry me, and stay the same- beautiful money where it does not mean a thing, money make the world turn , anything Closure seeking itself in the open flatlands of an opaque remembering scheme this is him in his prime, waiting for me with the open hands of a martyr stinging when will you separate the screams from the hit on key singing of angels of sorts foxes in the court room dancing during the sweeping, over papers left behind foxes
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Dec 26, 2013
Dec 26, 2013 at 5:43 PM UTC
You never liked me, you just liked my (beautiful anything)
Body: Pinups and post adolescent boys screaming turbulence strung out in my room, days for ever growing more jaded what ever that means, surely these things, will rip my heart out get back to my head, share anything, better make my head feel still Reading in the blue light that is a broken hearted city passing by without it all , skylines for side views, heading south, away from it when will it all mean surely nothing, will it rip my head out get back to my bed, share anything, better make my bed feel here Thankful for all the things i get wrong that i still feel in the day you out there, somewhere doing good , filling the world with so much hope where age means nothing, and you can marry me, and stay the same- beautiful money where it does not mean a thing, money make the world turn , anything Closure seeking itself in the open flatlands of an opaque remembering scheme this is him in his prime, waiting for me with the open hands of a martyr stinging when will you separate the screams from the hit on key singing of angels of sorts foxes in the court room dancing during the sweeping, over papers left behind foxes
frances-lazarus-blackheart
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frances-lazarus-blackheart
Dec 26, 2013
Dec 26, 2013 at 5:43 PM UTC
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