There is nothing I can compare to the wait.
The moment before flesh hits wall
And knuckles hard as stone bleed against brick.
We see red through the tears
that run down the distorted lines of our faces,
cooling the burning skin of our cheeks,
And seasoning our lips with salty streams.
We hide our sadness behind our rage.
Our bruised hearts behind bandaged knuckles,
The way the air smells fresh with perfumed lies and a hint of apologies.
The smell that reminds me of the color red.
And we wait for that moment,
That the line becomes blurred.
We loose our sense somewhere between adrenaline and addiction
To the pain they cause and the pain we live for.
And we wait.
We wait for a sign, a cure, an apology, an explanation, a reason.
Nothing compares to the static silence,
No words to describe the reckless sadness,
I close my eyes and the wait looks red.
-K. Moran
@words.and.weapons
Apr 11, 2017
Apr 11, 2017 at 11:26 PM UTC
There is nothing I can compare to the wait.
The moment before flesh hits wall
And knuckles hard as stone bleed against brick.
We see red through the tears
that run down the distorted lines of our faces,
cooling the burning skin of our cheeks,
And seasoning our lips with salty streams.
We hide our sadness behind our rage.
Our bruised hearts behind bandaged knuckles,
The way the air smells fresh with perfumed lies and a hint of apologies.
The smell that reminds me of the color red.
And we wait for that moment,
That the line becomes blurred.
We loose our sense somewhere between adrenaline and addiction
To the pain they cause and the pain we live for.
And we wait.
We wait for a sign, a cure, an apology, an explanation, a reason.
Nothing compares to the static silence,
No words to describe the reckless sadness,
I close my eyes and the wait looks red.
-K. Moran
@words.and.weapons