Your angelic words wrapped with demonic intent Wont reach me from all the way up there Your pedestal is too high, I'm afraid I can't hear a word you say Your godlike vocabulary can't hide that devilish motive And for as much as you lie, you are one awful liar That angel light of yours can't blind me anymore I have a special pair of sunglasses now They block out all the repugnant **** from sight
She buries her face in her hands, stuck too fast Jammed in her passion, she fashions her last breath from the diamonds that grace her fingertips Gently, gently, they fall as the blood drips Slowly like a rhythmic drum beating, repeating Heartbeats as her only assurance of being alive Wide eyes tried to slide up where people could truly see But her sunglasses are steel doors, and visible is something she’ll never be
I always hated going under it in the middle of the day. It felt like a mirror; a reflected isomer — too still and too sad to be near. Shadows give that same feeling, but with blurred corners feeling slightly farther away.
I prefer going under the bridge at night. Cooler, like sunglasses that you don’t have to put on. The night as a way of saying, “It’s not up to you what you get to see now. I decide what’s important for you. Which is absolutely nothing”.