I’ve got:
Horns for thoughts; and feelings that are for the vague
Glass for eyes, their tears are just old memories of dreams
A nose exhaust, blowing hot smoke to cool off the engine
A beard of grass; hoping the waters of time helps it grow

I’ve got:
A void for a smile; a darkness that quietly hides away in the pit
Quiet lips made out of violin strings; a humble refrain to play
A mighty sword for words, with a bold voice so cutthroat
And each breath is ******; being an inch of one’s lost vanity

I’ve got:
Wrists like a heavy grey cloud; a sleeve that can easily bleed
Fingers made of needles; an unfortunate hold pinned to the present
Denim for skin; the dyed hues of generations stuck in my genes
Moss for a heart; a love only by the surface- no seeds to grow

I’ve got:
Bones made out of dust; can’t clean the stain of sin by myself
Ginger in my soul; aromatic- filled with a vigour of liveliness
But this body is so meagre; so eager to find new means to grow
But I don’t own a piece of it, at all- I’ve borrowed it for a time,
An agreement with life; as sleep is the middleman and death
Is the Great debt collector…