I like secrets, because they keep me in line
What does a sail do when it is stuck at sea
At the mercy of those in his seat
What does a duckling do
When his mother is swept away
The tides of yesterday.
When I yearn for a connection
A true, genuine scrap of something
A finger, a hand, a cuddle
I can’t think of a single soul
A single soul
Who could comfort these dark monsters within the cradle of my centre.
I miss splendour, I miss thousands of genitals
I wish I could look into someone’s eyes
And see millions of moments, billions of words
All said, all touched, completely on exhibition for me, for us,
Mango leaves, dried trees
A true, genuine scrap of something
Love is an optical illusion
I find love at the bottom of my glass,
I find fear in an empty bed.
Worried sick
Horror lulled me into laze
Dazes, fades to grey
Ashes do not exist
Ashes do not exist
I am the ash of my own fingertips
I am the cigarette-kissed burns on my guns and roses.
Flesh, oh flesh
That is all that it is.
A first kiss.
Jan 1, 2015
Jan 1, 2015 at 11:27 AM UTC
I like secrets, because they keep me in line
What does a sail do when it is stuck at sea
At the mercy of those in his seat
What does a duckling do
When his mother is swept away
The tides of yesterday.
When I yearn for a connection
A true, genuine scrap of something
A finger, a hand, a cuddle
I can’t think of a single soul
A single soul
Who could comfort these dark monsters within the cradle of my centre.
I miss splendour, I miss thousands of genitals
I wish I could look into someone’s eyes
And see millions of moments, billions of words
All said, all touched, completely on exhibition for me, for us,
Mango leaves, dried trees
A true, genuine scrap of something
Love is an optical illusion
I find love at the bottom of my glass,
I find fear in an empty bed.
Worried sick
Horror lulled me into laze
Dazes, fades to grey
Ashes do not exist
Ashes do not exist
I am the ash of my own fingertips
I am the cigarette-kissed burns on my guns and roses.
Flesh, oh flesh
That is all that it is.
A first kiss.
