my ears are *****
my fingers are fucking( with the purist of intentions )
there is a bus in the lane next to me
as i come closer and closer
i notice the amsterdamn read lights
and i think to myself
(i wonder how much that bus driver would charge me for a ****
she looks old and faded
crusty crumbling eye lids
held up by small sticks
made from the bones of huming bird wings
fashoned together by tiny men
in the face of the man in the moon
Nov 27, 2011
Nov 27, 2011 at 6:22 AM UTC
my ears are *****
my fingers are fucking( with the purist of intentions )
there is a bus in the lane next to me
as i come closer and closer
i notice the amsterdamn read lights
and i think to myself
(i wonder how much that bus driver would charge me for a ****
she looks old and faded
crusty crumbling eye lids
held up by small sticks
made from the bones of huming bird wings
fashoned together by tiny men
in the face of the man in the moon
Request permission to use this poem