the deep water I believed to be treading through
was mud all along:

bed side table herman hesse
looks up to see one of van goghs, wants to undress
doesn't have a ******, this *** is a mess
she's not surprised
'cause she's a pessimist.

to her loves affairs:

she's keepin' shut
no more love left in her gut
the feelings escaped her through the cuts
one for every lover
she didn't give a ****
don't worry about her wrists
instead she likes to use her fists,
bad throws, punching chains
lets the men drive, fast lanes.
bruises are the names of the faces she misplaced
in her bones where she resides,
it's a pillow that she lies beside.

she's not a trick
she's not a *****,
most feared is to be a bore
so she smiles and speaks,
too much? doesn't grieve.
as long as what she's saying is something to believe.

as long as you're in the mood
to laugh
there's no need
to wear a mask
just leave alone
the aching things
that bring you
beneath
the weight of gravity.

heavy heavy heavy
leave me to my beats

I'll walk the streets

heavy