A fragile little bird, with a torn wing sits on a wire, separate from the others, clinging to himself in the cold wind
All his life he has had to hold his lungs close to himself, hold his heart even closer, for heart is a traitor
Hold it in, close the doors and nail the wooden planks, line the heavy furniture long the doors ,walls naked devoid of any ink that would sketched his heart,
Windows bleached to strip off any residue of sunlight that might have clung to it, fragments of his soul and snatches of painful memories and strings of feather lie like a rug on the floor,
Thousand words as lithe and sharp as spears and bullets, crash, burn, the outlines of his heart, they steal an inch of his soul little by little,
Terrorists crawling into the skyscraper, there are 22 bombs on the top floor
There are thousand bombs in his heart, that never burst like anguish of people does, but when it bursts,
It busts like meteorite crashing, tearing, slashing, and destroying every inch of land that ever grew flowers
A bird, careless and homeless, falls off from the pole, the fragile little bird opens up his arms, she descends like an autumn leaf, signal of change,
Her painting lines his empty walls, and her words clambered up his heart and opened up his arteries
But she, a careless little bird, saw pale skin; she never saw the flaming mind looming inside,
And it burst like an atom bomb, bullet filtering though her veins
His aim was never at her, but she was the victim of his anger
His anger was only consequence to those thousand bullets aimed at him,
The fragile little bird like a crystal glass dropped, crashes into tiny shards,
That ****** your feet and bleed into droplets of lost happiness.
Oct 11, 2013
Oct 11, 2013 at 4:34 AM UTC
A fragile little bird, with a torn wing sits on a wire, separate from the others, clinging to himself in the cold wind
All his life he has had to hold his lungs close to himself, hold his heart even closer, for heart is a traitor
Hold it in, close the doors and nail the wooden planks, line the heavy furniture long the doors ,walls naked devoid of any ink that would sketched his heart,
Windows bleached to strip off any residue of sunlight that might have clung to it, fragments of his soul and snatches of painful memories and strings of feather lie like a rug on the floor,
Thousand words as lithe and sharp as spears and bullets, crash, burn, the outlines of his heart, they steal an inch of his soul little by little,
Terrorists crawling into the skyscraper, there are 22 bombs on the top floor
There are thousand bombs in his heart, that never burst like anguish of people does, but when it bursts,
It busts like meteorite crashing, tearing, slashing, and destroying every inch of land that ever grew flowers
A bird, careless and homeless, falls off from the pole, the fragile little bird opens up his arms, she descends like an autumn leaf, signal of change,
Her painting lines his empty walls, and her words clambered up his heart and opened up his arteries
But she, a careless little bird, saw pale skin; she never saw the flaming mind looming inside,
And it burst like an atom bomb, bullet filtering though her veins
His aim was never at her, but she was the victim of his anger
His anger was only consequence to those thousand bullets aimed at him,
The fragile little bird like a crystal glass dropped, crashes into tiny shards,
That ****** your feet and bleed into droplets of lost happiness.
