Anxious flashbacks in the back of your Cadillac, with
The window half down to drown out the drones of
Mom’s mouth, ten years old and I’m anxious to
Fill what I lack, but now I’m dying alone in
The back of a stranger’s hatchback and I
Wonder, will God let a ****** through
The gates? Because Mom said the
Chance of a *** getting into
That place was as good as a
Camel strolling thru the
Eye of needle, or
Something like
That, I don’t
Remember
Really.
I do know that Aunt Ruth said I was a needle in a stack of hay, so
I can’t die this way, because God would never make a kid shine
Like truth just to burn out in the soft glow of the flame against
A spoon, that’s just logic. ‘Cuz God, I tried to tie a thread
To my spine and swan dive into the fabric of this Earth,
But all I got was a couches’ bruise, a pillow filled with
The feathers of a plucked bird with its tongue-tied
And words’ lynched, destined to haunt PSA’s and
Statistics, now I’m itching for a way to lay
Or place to sit to die with a sense of
Purpose, so I stretch my arms out
With my palms up like Jesus,
But the Police will see the
Lesions, a haunting
Image of celestial
Intent, But God
Will only see
The
Marks
From
The
Needle.
Jun 24, 2014
Jun 24, 2014 at 9:46 PM UTC
Anxious flashbacks in the back of your Cadillac, with
The window half down to drown out the drones of
Mom’s mouth, ten years old and I’m anxious to
Fill what I lack, but now I’m dying alone in
The back of a stranger’s hatchback and I
Wonder, will God let a ****** through
The gates? Because Mom said the
Chance of a *** getting into
That place was as good as a
Camel strolling thru the
Eye of needle, or
Something like
That, I don’t
Remember
Really.
I do know that Aunt Ruth said I was a needle in a stack of hay, so
I can’t die this way, because God would never make a kid shine
Like truth just to burn out in the soft glow of the flame against
A spoon, that’s just logic. ‘Cuz God, I tried to tie a thread
To my spine and swan dive into the fabric of this Earth,
But all I got was a couches’ bruise, a pillow filled with
The feathers of a plucked bird with its tongue-tied
And words’ lynched, destined to haunt PSA’s and
Statistics, now I’m itching for a way to lay
Or place to sit to die with a sense of
Purpose, so I stretch my arms out
With my palms up like Jesus,
But the Police will see the
Lesions, a haunting
Image of celestial
Intent, But God
Will only see
The
Marks
From
The
Needle.