Raised up in honey.
Now an angel in glue.
I never worked out.
What happened to you.
Bruised in this world.
A walking red eye.
I used to think about,
this, and I'd cry.
External, eternal.
And nothing to do.
Circles on circles.
Whiter than you.
Scored up in sanity.
Cut up in pain.
Metal and things.
A runaway train.
White lines and distance.
Your journeys end.
A crushed up nonsense.
No receive, just send.
This verse is so cheap.
It's all just the strands.
Of a much bigger thing.
I just sit on my hands.
Lost.
Feb 4, 2011
Feb 4, 2011 at 1:14 PM UTC
Raised up in honey.
Now an angel in glue.
I never worked out.
What happened to you.
Bruised in this world.
A walking red eye.
I used to think about,
this, and I'd cry.
External, eternal.
And nothing to do.
Circles on circles.
Whiter than you.
Scored up in sanity.
Cut up in pain.
Metal and things.
A runaway train.
White lines and distance.
Your journeys end.
A crushed up nonsense.
No receive, just send.
This verse is so cheap.
It's all just the strands.
Of a much bigger thing.
I just sit on my hands.
Lost.
Copyright © 2011, Phil Stewart. All rights reserved.
Request permission to use this poem