The wind tries to control our ribbons. They blow across the dirt, Not quite light enough to be lifted, And they crawl at our feet, Whispering of our potential Trying to break our defenses With their mouthless words. The ribbons want to tie us together In a pretty bow, on top of a big, Materialistic present, But we are only as vulnerable As the expensive electronic inside.
Sometimes they don’t make a bow, But weave around our ankles And up our thighs, Pressing our hips together, A group hug of sorts. We no longer know how to fight, But we do the closer we get, And we can’t decide whose Fault this is.
We can blame metaphors or love, But either way, we are just too Knotted together,
Our only weapons blunt scissors. We try to tear ourselves away Whilst making out. How many of us are there? It’s hard for me to tell-- I push one away and begin kissing another, But they are all just friends-- Or friendly acquaintances?
Maybe it’s just me the ribbons have ******* And everyone else just happened to be there When they did.