May 2013
You're the one to pluck the pricking rows from the gathering rose
Gracing heads in the hours of cowards
I saw you wishing at the well speaking spells without change and a bucket full of mouths
No nickel
Sans silver
I know no drunken night will get rid of the bones you have hid skin deep without fair or fond beauty
I thought you knew that broken boys were made of burning wings and puppet strings
Sticks
Bones
Glass
Stones
They bow down to my crown
So please speak the mind of your weak and shaking knees
Ease us all and tell how tall you can scrape a sun-less sky before I judge this trail of wax and feathers with a burning back
Call the red light whistles: I'm having an angry young life mistake heart break attack
You never said whether the weather was flame or shower
So my marching men cower you see, being made of wood
In fire or water a daughter of either nemesis elements will make them all fall down
You should mourn you thorn torn mess wrapped in a pedal-less dress
You dared to reckon with the second son of death
And I did not breathe my first breath being born between two eyes seeing any form of life out there
And I did not believe you'd relieve the constant arch sparking the greener side no longer cleaner than the duller parallel due to forest fires
Button up that shirt, and have you tied your black tie?
The beholder has died
We must mourn the values torn between flawed judgment cawed by a bird’s eye view watching you from petty pictures and a meaningless word they heard from the latter mentioned bucket as two of them are cracking your glass with one stone like
"You foolish fool, hasn't life shown you heaven never listens at 11:11?"
And melting the unleavened within my frowned mouth with spit and a tear I fear for you while my eye is watching it all from a distance in an instance of sickness and sadness
"What is this madness? My body is not made to witness a price paid with another laid down and made dead. In my head there are funerals, in my head there's parades; both celebrations for a nation in heartache full of memories bowing down below the crown that they break. And I refuse to let the pieces of my transparent house be collected by mavericks. Time ticks on the dawn of dying days. With words up my sleeves, I continue my melancholy ways."
Gracing heads in the hours of cowards
I saw you wishing at the well speaking spells without change and a bucket full of mouths
No nickel
Sans silver
I know no drunken night will get rid of the bones you have hid skin deep without fair or fond beauty
I thought you knew that broken boys were made of burning wings and puppet strings
Sticks
Bones
Glass
Stones
They bow down to my crown
So please speak the mind of your weak and shaking knees
Ease us all and tell how tall you can scrape a sun-less sky before I judge this trail of wax and feathers with a burning back
Call the red light whistles: I'm having an angry young life mistake heart break attack
You never said whether the weather was flame or shower
So my marching men cower you see, being made of wood
In fire or water a daughter of either nemesis elements will make them all fall down
You should mourn you thorn torn mess wrapped in a pedal-less dress
You dared to reckon with the second son of death
And I did not breathe my first breath being born between two eyes seeing any form of life out there
And I did not believe you'd relieve the constant arch sparking the greener side no longer cleaner than the duller parallel due to forest fires
Button up that shirt, and have you tied your black tie?
The beholder has died
We must mourn the values torn between flawed judgment cawed by a bird’s eye view watching you from petty pictures and a meaningless word they heard from the latter mentioned bucket as two of them are cracking your glass with one stone like
"You foolish fool, hasn't life shown you heaven never listens at 11:11?"
And melting the unleavened within my frowned mouth with spit and a tear I fear for you while my eye is watching it all from a distance in an instance of sickness and sadness
"What is this madness? My body is not made to witness a price paid with another laid down and made dead. In my head there are funerals, in my head there's parades; both celebrations for a nation in heartache full of memories bowing down below the crown that they break. And I refuse to let the pieces of my transparent house be collected by mavericks. Time ticks on the dawn of dying days. With words up my sleeves, I continue my melancholy ways."
