I wish I was a musician, Wrote riffs for my guitar, Earned loads of cash, looked like Slash, And drove a fancy car. I wish I was an artist, Created worlds with paint, Banksy as my bro, a huge afro, At my feet London would faint. I wish I was an actor, For all the world's a stage, I'd win awards, tread the West End boards, And make 'portly' all the rage. It's pants being a poet, Scribbling odes year after year, But I'm not flighty, I can write in my nightie, And post it all on here.
what are we, i ask myself i own no statement only feeble questions
i see your blushing face asleep on trash but i could never see my freezing heart at ease at the fire's eager edge, only in it
now i offer life anew at your brick and mortar altar where once i'd incinerate my own skin maybe if i pray hard, i'll pray your apathy away when words are all i have to give it's the most fitting gift to receive
i suppose so
when i consign my primal urge to dead space i consign in full view of destinies lost grow dead to human touch
sniffing all the lacquer off your short nails quick to bed, while high i await morning's rise wakeful through the night, tooth to lip
I'm looking for a wild card, a badmash Not a monster that will want to leave a slash When i let the troops come into my base to visit I hope the firefight inside is with passion and not bullets. Love ups the flames but so does misery.