I have been writing songs of escape whilst staying inside.
I have become sexless; young bones but an old soul
Painting in caves, and shielding eyes from the sunlight.
There is no *** in self-pity. The new Casanova on pills;
Hands clamming over a glass of whiskey and ice,
And eyes plastered to the sports news for the next tragedy.
I remember the chestnut hair of my childhood.
Rubbing potatoes over tree bark to show nature’s artistry;
We need not create, when creation does it itself.
Now, there are just photographs of corpses in the clouds.
I walk the same route each day, expecting a different outcome,
Going over old ground, yet striving to feel new again.
May 17, 2014
May 17, 2014 at 3:11 PM UTC
I have been writing songs of escape whilst staying inside.
I have become sexless; young bones but an old soul
Painting in caves, and shielding eyes from the sunlight.
There is no *** in self-pity. The new Casanova on pills;
Hands clamming over a glass of whiskey and ice,
And eyes plastered to the sports news for the next tragedy.
I remember the chestnut hair of my childhood.
Rubbing potatoes over tree bark to show nature’s artistry;
We need not create, when creation does it itself.
Now, there are just photographs of corpses in the clouds.
I walk the same route each day, expecting a different outcome,
Going over old ground, yet striving to feel new again.
c
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