Make it to tomorrow Hit the sheets Make this the last paper I speak They yell My mom says get to bed But my head is lead Onto belief on what’s fed The loose leaf I hit the sheets Make this the last paper I speak They yell My mom says use your head But my gun is filled with lead Into the streets with speed The strong grip Hit the safety Make this trigger pulled The last paper I speak They yell Bedded in hell Make it to tomorrow I better be reel
two adjacent piano keys yelled over each other for a moving spotlight, a crinkle of the eyes, and a sweet, tender smile. instead, their noise made ears beg for peace until eyes glanced away, and they were left alone with their discordant sounds.
I repeated things so many times, they've become lies, and I can't breathe thinking about the number of times I wished I could just be alright and yelled why?! Please, God! I yell in my head, why why why listen to me this once, I just want to die.
Find community amongst the dives where the masses drink like sailors, sink like ships. The wayfarer's watering hole, where spirits stain scripture written on bar napkins and patrons serve as a quiet reminder, that I sold my megaphone and bought a butane lighter.