Jun 2012
Never trust trigger happy love birds. There’s nothing worse then those quick bullet, one shot lovers.
They never shoot straight, always tilted slightly to the left, and each shot is fired with just as little precaution as the next. These wayward birds take to every successful hit with big star-ward eyes. Eyes so wide it breaks your heart. Eyes filled with such pride, they’re as sinful as innocence herself.
These birds fly rather high in the silver-lined sky, letting romance blur their vision. Undisturbed by whispered warnings and signs that follow them so close. They’ll twitter and tweet that their love knows no such repose. Then those very same star-lit eyes watch the ground comes crashing, knocking them from the clouds. Leaving bullet holes where wings should be and shards of stars in once bright eyes.
Then they’ll look at you in such a way that you can’t help but clean their wounds. These poor birds will tell you, like they mean it every time, they really thought that was their last shot. They really thought they had found their bird of a feather, their one in a million in where millions fly. However all is well, you’ll soon see. As soon as their healed, they’ll fly straight back to where they’ll always be. Eyes wayward, star-ward and set on that sky. With the trigger and bullet, perfectly aligned.
You just have to hope that this time, they won’t hit you.
They never shoot straight, always tilted slightly to the left, and each shot is fired with just as little precaution as the next. These wayward birds take to every successful hit with big star-ward eyes. Eyes so wide it breaks your heart. Eyes filled with such pride, they’re as sinful as innocence herself.
These birds fly rather high in the silver-lined sky, letting romance blur their vision. Undisturbed by whispered warnings and signs that follow them so close. They’ll twitter and tweet that their love knows no such repose. Then those very same star-lit eyes watch the ground comes crashing, knocking them from the clouds. Leaving bullet holes where wings should be and shards of stars in once bright eyes.
Then they’ll look at you in such a way that you can’t help but clean their wounds. These poor birds will tell you, like they mean it every time, they really thought that was their last shot. They really thought they had found their bird of a feather, their one in a million in where millions fly. However all is well, you’ll soon see. As soon as their healed, they’ll fly straight back to where they’ll always be. Eyes wayward, star-ward and set on that sky. With the trigger and bullet, perfectly aligned.
You just have to hope that this time, they won’t hit you.
