May 2012
Its When Inspiration Hits You Like A Storm, & Like That Wet, Hot, Eye Of Perfection. You Stand, Knowing That Your God Had Never Truly Been Awake Before This Moment. But He Has Risen From His Bed For You. With Eyes Wide, And Eyes Raw, And He Gives You This Moment. Its A Gift, Or A Lovely Curse With A Bow Around It, Witch Is Either, We Don't Know. But He Sells You A Vacancy In The Empty Hotel That Is Your Body.
The Hollow Eyes, And Empty Hips, The Molar Explosions, And The Swallowed Bruises, He Knows Where Your Flaws Are. He Knows The Room Number, And The Skylit Shade Of Remorse You Painted The Bedroom Walls, When You Tried To Forget. He Knows That You Decorated The Bathroom With Starfish, Because Deep Down, You Knew You Came From The Sea. He Knows The Broken Mirrors, And Nailed Now Monet Paintings. He Knows You're Afraid That They'll Leave You. He Knows The Carpet By Heart, The Sew And Stitch Of The Thread. He Memorized What It, So He Could Call To Memory Just Exactly How Your Tears Tasted When You Found Solstice On His Ground.
He Sells You A Truth, An Infamous Beauty That Paints A Story Of A Girl, In Room 214 Of That Empty Hotel. A Girl With Eyes The Size Of Baby Worlds. A Girl Who Strips Off The Story Of A Broken Family, And 9-5 Worth Ethic That Bruises Her Knees.
He Sells You A Story of A Boy, In Room 121, Who Tattooed “Forgive Me” On The Insides Of His Wrists, Basks In The Glow Of The Television Screen, And Takes A Syringe In His Hand, And Smiles At The Reflection Of What He Sees In The Mirror. Some Sweet Sadistic Part Of Him, Likes To Know Hes Killing Himself, And Likes To Watch Him Do It.
He Sells You A Moment Of A Man Who Wasted His Years On Lies, Who Painted Stories In His Mind, But Wears His Father's Legacy Like An Oversized Coat, Never Quiet Filling It Out, Always Knowing His Father Wore It Better, But Now He Takes It Off For The First Time In Years, And Dances. He Dances To The Music He Wished He Had Written, And Dances For The Girls He Wished He Had Met.
He Sells You An Honesty, Of A Tale Of A Thousand Bad Goodbyes. He Tells You That Sparks Meet Inside You, That Stars Died To Become You, And To Let Your Heart Get Blood Drunk Enough To Convince Itself It Is Your Brain, Because That Is Where Real Beauty Is Born, Inside The Hollow Rooms Of Yourself, That You Have Yet To Rent Out To All The Strangers You Will Become.
The Hollow Eyes, And Empty Hips, The Molar Explosions, And The Swallowed Bruises, He Knows Where Your Flaws Are. He Knows The Room Number, And The Skylit Shade Of Remorse You Painted The Bedroom Walls, When You Tried To Forget. He Knows That You Decorated The Bathroom With Starfish, Because Deep Down, You Knew You Came From The Sea. He Knows The Broken Mirrors, And Nailed Now Monet Paintings. He Knows You're Afraid That They'll Leave You. He Knows The Carpet By Heart, The Sew And Stitch Of The Thread. He Memorized What It, So He Could Call To Memory Just Exactly How Your Tears Tasted When You Found Solstice On His Ground.
He Sells You A Truth, An Infamous Beauty That Paints A Story Of A Girl, In Room 214 Of That Empty Hotel. A Girl With Eyes The Size Of Baby Worlds. A Girl Who Strips Off The Story Of A Broken Family, And 9-5 Worth Ethic That Bruises Her Knees.
He Sells You A Story of A Boy, In Room 121, Who Tattooed “Forgive Me” On The Insides Of His Wrists, Basks In The Glow Of The Television Screen, And Takes A Syringe In His Hand, And Smiles At The Reflection Of What He Sees In The Mirror. Some Sweet Sadistic Part Of Him, Likes To Know Hes Killing Himself, And Likes To Watch Him Do It.
He Sells You A Moment Of A Man Who Wasted His Years On Lies, Who Painted Stories In His Mind, But Wears His Father's Legacy Like An Oversized Coat, Never Quiet Filling It Out, Always Knowing His Father Wore It Better, But Now He Takes It Off For The First Time In Years, And Dances. He Dances To The Music He Wished He Had Written, And Dances For The Girls He Wished He Had Met.
He Sells You An Honesty, Of A Tale Of A Thousand Bad Goodbyes. He Tells You That Sparks Meet Inside You, That Stars Died To Become You, And To Let Your Heart Get Blood Drunk Enough To Convince Itself It Is Your Brain, Because That Is Where Real Beauty Is Born, Inside The Hollow Rooms Of Yourself, That You Have Yet To Rent Out To All The Strangers You Will Become.
