The author of my favorite book would’ve never said ‘favorite’
He does talk about sacrifice and really deep things
And that word can’t explain any of it.
He says we always choose what we can’t have and cry over it
But now all that just sounds like a pop song about a pretty girl
With flaxen hair and long –long legs figuring out her way
I wish my tale was more cinematic, but it is dry as hell.
Today is no better than yesterday
Just a different shade of sickly blue
I deliberately keep avoiding the context of love
Because it’s so basal and we’ve refined tastes
Or so I think
I know little boys don’t think that much and
Little girls are told good girls don’t play with fire
Wretched, needy begging bowl of a soul
Invested too much on a gambler’s lucky streak
Now I’ve woken up to an endless sabbatical from relevance
I hold on to a smile
One that remains long after it’s gone
Like the sudden flicker of street lights in a rainy day
Doesn’t make a big deal about itself
And eyes that don’t melt concrete or anything but
Eyes that could make a cold-blooded killer cry
And they hoodwinked me
Perhaps we’re naked in heaven
To make up for all the deception in our lifetime.