I sit in darkness, soaked in Gin, I remember everything, except all the things Tequila forgot, I remember nothing except for the things left to rot
I forgot the darkest nights most certainly in days light I forgot you placed the drink in my hand, is that how we ended up here last night?
A half empty glass we have mired our delusion dear Do the stories just get better or do we simply fill in the blanks? Trace our old lines again and again. Weathered are my eyes behind a mask It’s no place to breath but anything beats the grave.
As we recall the sunset from the shore it seems so far now it is but a fraction of the truest sense and the most cursed fools delusion a switchblades sting and you will remain my favorite scar?
Delusions are illusions with which we fool ourselves with a magician’s eye and a sense of skill. Sunsets upon a distant shore are our memories retreating against our will.The switchblades knife is rusty and it's only hope is to scar.
Do you revere or revile me? The empty bottles that lay between us ask for little. I ask us for more!
Will I be your scar, the one you rub when you’re alone? Tracing lines that cut so deep but set rigid, like stone?
Perhaps the open wound you created when you picked apart our past won't heal as quickly, and like the final drink we had together won't be our last.
Painted is the portrait so far from the truths we all choose to ignore and now I simply understand are regrets than the echoes of a shared view.
When we break the heart do we find solace in a statue like existence? We all spill the glass sometimes and a candles view dim will only reflect the shadows we've become.
Tomorrows a dream and the nightmares become a friend far more than this dance I care no longer to stand and the ice won’t bare the weight of this ego's crash.
Let's skate the ice so thin it cracks beneath the weigh of pain. Let's dance the tango of wilted dreams and find no shame. Let the broken heart of shattered glass be a reminder of our pain but you and I, we share a common lust we mix silently, oil and water blending in the same frame
For from the page to the far corners of this empty floor we have made our choices Now we understand past regrets in silent reframe
Never doubt the passion for the lack of fire it simmers a volcano underneath the illusion of emptiness and so we find are paths twisted yet always brought back to the same point.
We always speak in shadows what is known in light of day.
Our paths are gritty dirt, pretty split and intertwined broken cobblestoned nights and sun baked days to which we can’t deny Shadows that come to play hide the demons we would once talk to, but threw away when we attempted to revive a life we weren't meant for Our answers don't lay at the bottom of the bottle nor do they rest behind the closed door, They itch beneath our fractured skin and spill their secrets on the floor dripping from serrated cuts that pump a life full of ****** memories the broken bottle stands as sentinel asking always for One More... Please?
Maybe we found our muse in a mutual insanity. Laid bare the vein I question what lingers when nothing remains beneath?
This last round stands only for the night my dear for its clutches are but a moments embrace and an overcast view. Tomorrow I can never promise what fate hands us by surprise.
Insanity is a fickle Muse that's sips from a collapsed vein breaking bottles against skulls looking for an idiot to blame
Personally I think our Muse is a Mistress that flogs well in the dark Chaining our souls to our demons never shining light on our demise, Demanding we whip ourselves hoarse prying opens the oysters of our murky world spilling pearls of stone into a world so stark
No, the Muse of you and I is an unruly *****. She chokes our memories and forces our pain with a flick of her wrist
As always I have to give most credit to my friend Helen writing with me is bout like being in a tornado and with her skill she makes my work seem far better than it is Cheers Helen its always honor to pen one with you.