It’s deep dark. I am talking to an owl
who is awaken in my tree.
An unknown radio station playing
“I Ain’t Got No Home in This World Anymore”
make the night bleed in black.
Those paper planes you made flies
around in a storm within.
Uninvited butterflies possess the
room through the smoke scented windows.
The temperature rises and my fever burns,
an empty needle still stitches a wound in me.
The song doesn’t stop but repeats.
Shoot me in the point-blank.
Have a well dug deep grave.
I stole a journey from you.
Be insane my tremors,
a long-awaited winter is coming.
Still long to go this long night
There is a greater possibility of
getting your heart ruined
but you do it everyday
Do you remember the old house
in the end of the street?
I always had that unhappy
feeling about the colour.
Now let’s paint it in hard yellow.
I still knew you close
your eyes when you smile.
Nov 1, 2018
Nov 1, 2018 at 5:44 AM UTC
It’s deep dark. I am talking to an owl
who is awaken in my tree.
An unknown radio station playing
“I Ain’t Got No Home in This World Anymore”
make the night bleed in black.
Those paper planes you made flies
around in a storm within.
Uninvited butterflies possess the
room through the smoke scented windows.
The temperature rises and my fever burns,
an empty needle still stitches a wound in me.
The song doesn’t stop but repeats.
Shoot me in the point-blank.
Have a well dug deep grave.
I stole a journey from you.
Be insane my tremors,
a long-awaited winter is coming.
Still long to go this long night
There is a greater possibility of
getting your heart ruined
but you do it everyday
Do you remember the old house
in the end of the street?
I always had that unhappy
feeling about the colour.
Now let’s paint it in hard yellow.
I still knew you close
your eyes when you smile.
