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freds-not-deadPoems
You’ll sit around with your girls Drinking cheap wine You never open the blinds Leave the light out What you think doesn’t move me I’ve almost starved trying to feed myself on you I hope you call me crazy and laugh at my words I burn bridges to create I can’t get inside of you without tension Without some form of heartbreak Imagined or created by fire If we had stayed clean, unstained Unmoved, unexcited I would have stayed that lovely catatonic color. I filled myself to excess on your beauty Your cool-head lack of insanity The way you clung to my neck Pecked At my bones The quiet mornings with your body arching Your fingers in my hair I burn bridges Because they are practical and boring You meet on the bridge You don’t scream from your gut from the river bank I can’t say I haven’t tasted sweetness Like a syrup in my filthy mouth Fruits turn gray Fingers scratch the skin after the collapse. I burn bridges because of my obsession with fire With devouring, With the passions that destroy You lay in bed scared of Death And jealousy is all I’ve got left You wake up and you go to work And your co-workers smile And you smile and you mean it, the smile. I can’t fit that anywhere.
0
Mar 27, 2011
Mar 27, 2011 at 1:36 PM UTC
Another Song with Fire and Death in it (Or An Explanation to Fit my Behavior)
You’ll sit around with your girls Drinking cheap wine You never open the blinds Leave the light out What you think doesn’t move me I’ve almost starved trying to feed myself on you I hope you call me crazy and laugh at my words I burn bridges to create I can’t get inside of you without tension Without some form of heartbreak Imagined or created by fire If we had stayed clean, unstained Unmoved, unexcited I would have stayed that lovely catatonic color. I filled myself to excess on your beauty Your cool-head lack of insanity The way you clung to my neck Pecked At my bones The quiet mornings with your body arching Your fingers in my hair I burn bridges Because they are practical and boring You meet on the bridge You don’t scream from your gut from the river bank I can’t say I haven’t tasted sweetness Like a syrup in my filthy mouth Fruits turn gray Fingers scratch the skin after the collapse. I burn bridges because of my obsession with fire With devouring, With the passions that destroy You lay in bed scared of Death And jealousy is all I’ve got left You wake up and you go to work And your co-workers smile And you smile and you mean it, the smile. I can’t fit that anywhere.
freds-not-dead
Written by
freds-not-dead
Canadian
Mar 27, 2011
Mar 27, 2011 at 1:36 PM UTC
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