I like to think your eye is at the keyhole,
Your sloppy brain conjuring make-shift realities
for your majick to paint into thin air
from your lies.
Bald-faced whoppers or sneaky half-truths,
You twirl them around your illusion
expecting
a fantastic creation
with which to delight yourself.
A pitiful white smoke jin,
dissolving
almost as quickly
as it rose from the flame.
You honestly believe you've stolen my illusion,
kept it just long enough to smudge,
a chalk drawing.
You honestly believe
I've let you do it, unwilling and unknowing.
Your fingers are *****
the powder won't wash away.
All for nothing.
You only erased the memory of what I once felt for you.
Ah, your makeshift majick works!
Well done and thank you.
How long will you keep squinting at the light on the other side?
Your eye must be getting tired.
Why don't you just open the door?
It ain't locked.
I've a feeling you've got a wicked temper
and a lot of hate built up inside that you
refuse to acknowledge,
try to ignore,
Until you're secure in the darkest corner of your prayer closet.
Facing a mirror,
Worshipping and damning
at the same time
That's when it boils over.
***** **** dog, frothing at the mouth...
Mean drunk, indiscriminate for a fight,
but there's no one at the bar.
Only a witch's cruel mirror
and all it says is...
"You aren't the Golden Child,
"Your majick is a sham
"No one cares enough to read you
"You're a thick, boring book
"The worst kind: a book about a book
"A book about yourself
"A book called 'Look What I've Done!'"
So here I sit, on the other side of your peephole view
Wondering what I should do next,
Knowing I'll never be strong enough to tell you
to your face
that I've known all along...
I walk through streets in your dreams...
Of this I'm certain
even as I know you're watching me right now,
with all your wasted mental projections,
charms, chants, lusts, cravings, desires, needs,
Casting that covetous spell my way but I guess
The keyhole must be too small
Because I don't feel a thing
and as I sit here,
naked in my own secret place,
I could care less that you live for these moments
of disappointed voyeurism
Dec 4, 2012
Dec 4, 2012 at 11:19 AM UTC
I like to think your eye is at the keyhole,
Your sloppy brain conjuring make-shift realities
for your majick to paint into thin air
from your lies.
Bald-faced whoppers or sneaky half-truths,
You twirl them around your illusion
expecting
a fantastic creation
with which to delight yourself.
A pitiful white smoke jin,
dissolving
almost as quickly
as it rose from the flame.
You honestly believe you've stolen my illusion,
kept it just long enough to smudge,
a chalk drawing.
You honestly believe
I've let you do it, unwilling and unknowing.
Your fingers are *****
the powder won't wash away.
All for nothing.
You only erased the memory of what I once felt for you.
Ah, your makeshift majick works!
Well done and thank you.
How long will you keep squinting at the light on the other side?
Your eye must be getting tired.
Why don't you just open the door?
It ain't locked.
I've a feeling you've got a wicked temper
and a lot of hate built up inside that you
refuse to acknowledge,
try to ignore,
Until you're secure in the darkest corner of your prayer closet.
Facing a mirror,
Worshipping and damning
at the same time
That's when it boils over.
***** **** dog, frothing at the mouth...
Mean drunk, indiscriminate for a fight,
but there's no one at the bar.
Only a witch's cruel mirror
and all it says is...
"You aren't the Golden Child,
"Your majick is a sham
"No one cares enough to read you
"You're a thick, boring book
"The worst kind: a book about a book
"A book about yourself
"A book called 'Look What I've Done!'"
So here I sit, on the other side of your peephole view
Wondering what I should do next,
Knowing I'll never be strong enough to tell you
to your face
that I've known all along...
I walk through streets in your dreams...
Of this I'm certain
even as I know you're watching me right now,
with all your wasted mental projections,
charms, chants, lusts, cravings, desires, needs,
Casting that covetous spell my way but I guess
The keyhole must be too small
Because I don't feel a thing
and as I sit here,
naked in my own secret place,
I could care less that you live for these moments
of disappointed voyeurism
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