I set fire to twenty six poems last night alone And at least another baker's dozen this morning The words just aren't perfect enough The plastic lining my limbs slows down the action of my fingertips
My pen keeps catching on the page and tearing holes throughout the surface, allowing all the letters I've chosen to escape
I've loved you too many times, without enough might And I guess all I get is a subject to write No point in trying to smile, because I really hate to lie to you
Nothing kills me more than the smell of this city in the morning Its pungent and repulsive odor shoots sickness up and down my spine, and leaves me in a pile of accordion skin trying to pick myself back up again But I'm loosely peeling from my own bones And becoming one with the planet
If only your eyes would tell me those lies Those tall tales of love And happiness The fables we've all heard since we were children, snugly tucked into our beds and preparing ourselves for dreams of the unlikely and the nonexistent