Looks down at me.
Has empathy but mistakes it for pity.
Treats me like charity and never gives.
Has a car seat but no fucking kids.
She runs us.
She runs us.
Our lady of hope.
She is the future,
She is the horoscope.
A dream of white fences,
And black and yellow dogs.
With red hydrants and green cops.
And fires burning the logs.
Dining and romancing.
Firehouse roses and silk beds.
Miles Davis and the sweet soul.
The jazz we burn over a bowl.
Through the city streets, through the empty malls, and vacant houses.
As we pass brothers, and sisters, and mothers, and fathers, and lovers, and many haters, and twice as many sheep.
To find home and self medicate while I can.
The elastic squish,
Of flesh and juice,
And sheets, and sweat.
Which felt like steam when it rolled.
Smoking. OH HOW SWEET!
HOW SWEET THE DRAG!!
How it filled and thrilled.
As we ashed and smashed.
The coma, the aftermath.
The limbo of luxury.
The bimbo of salutatory.
In my bed, I mean her bed.
If we were one, I mean if we’re one.
Then the bed is ours.
Death and dying,
Life and living.
Lives desperately trying.
Love it and we will buy it.
Teach me to be.
Help me to cry.
Hold me till I see.
You can be me, and I can be you.
Walk together, all we do.
Fights for peace.
We’ll die for hate.
Oh delusion, how sweet the escape.