I am a French horn, a bottle neckless hourglass and butterscotch tape
You're a red harp with veins painted on the side
When I come home, you see me as an acrylic heap with chips of lead and belly aching homing words
Scotch sticks and smoke smells and the stitches are uncomfortable on my neck where you often warm your hands
I am a masquerade of shellfish clamoring on about the epitome of burlesque humor
You’re alien to anything other than sourdough and design
I have structured my thesis around burlesque and you fail to see the humor
When I fear the apologists
You fear the escapists
I am the tigers of the world, borrowing viciousness
You’re a long pause, loved and disquieted, painting my stripes as veins
I’m freaked out now because the apologists are escaping and the escapists are apologizing
At this clear impasse, you pity and press on until my fingers at the French horn drain to my sides
I am an island in a puddle of sand
Jul 16, 2020
Jul 16, 2020 at 1:14 PM UTC
I am a French horn, a bottle neckless hourglass and butterscotch tape
You're a red harp with veins painted on the side
When I come home, you see me as an acrylic heap with chips of lead and belly aching homing words
Scotch sticks and smoke smells and the stitches are uncomfortable on my neck where you often warm your hands
I am a masquerade of shellfish clamoring on about the epitome of burlesque humor
You’re alien to anything other than sourdough and design
I have structured my thesis around burlesque and you fail to see the humor
When I fear the apologists
You fear the escapists
I am the tigers of the world, borrowing viciousness
You’re a long pause, loved and disquieted, painting my stripes as veins
I’m freaked out now because the apologists are escaping and the escapists are apologizing
At this clear impasse, you pity and press on until my fingers at the French horn drain to my sides
I am an island in a puddle of sand