"backroads" poems
Don’t forget to get away every once in awhile,
To lose yourself in a book
Or in the woods behind your home
Ride your bike into the sunset,
Sit on your front steps and count the cars passing by,
Lay on your roof and gaze up at the night sky,
Drive along backroads with the windows rolled down
Listening to nothing but the sound of rushing wind
I hope you take the time to be alone,
To sort through the cluttered shelves of your heart
I hope you take the time to be silent,
To close your eyes and just listen
I hope you take the time to be still,
To quiet your mind and experience the beauty
Of simply Being
In a world that tells us we should always be
Connected, on the go, and doing something worth sharing,
I hope you know it’s okay to
Disconnect, slow down, and keep some memories
Between you and the moment you shared it with.
Sep 1, 2013
Sep 1, 2013 at 9:53 PM UTC
Finding a lover is effortless
for some people.
They only want a few things:
Someone attractive, kind,
funny or rich.
But
I desire
something so much deeper.
I want
an intelligent mind
that wakes up thoughts in me
I didn't realize were hibernating.
I want
to converse, analyze and debate
without being conscious of
the sun rising and falling
between our words.
I want
to make a witty remark
at a coffee shop
so he can reply sarcastically
just for me to jab back immediately
and for him to comeback back playfully
until we're both laughing
stomachs shaking
spit flying
the whole store staring
and we leave
without coffee
I want
our hands to stitch together
perfectly
like two lost puzzle pieces;
one found under a couch cushion
one found inside a junk drawer.
The rest of the puzzle has
already been thrown away
but
these two pieces remain
and they fit.
I want
to fall in love together
then together fall in love with
art, museums, songs, poems
T.V shows, radio jingles,
greek food, backroads,
our mutual hatred for pop culture,
doing the dishes (as long as he washes and I dry)
wrong turns, piled up laundry, life.
Just fall in love with life.
I want
to hurt with him
I want
to save the world with him
I want
to meet, see, understand
and experience all that is foreign
with him.
I think it will only take us meeting
and it'll only be history and happiness from then on.
It's just a matter of if a love like that could ever be
and if a love like that could ever be for me.
Oct 3, 2017
Oct 3, 2017 at 11:35 PM UTC
i like informality
beer straight outta the bottle
pizza for breakfast
wearing a shirt 3 times
before washing it
doing dishes by hand
reading old birthday cards
stayin up til 2
even though i have to be up at 8
bonfires
backroads
gettin lost on the way to a bonfire
because i took a backroad
going to a bar
on a tuesday night
and kissin a stranger
because i'm drunk
and lonely
and through the years i've aquired a taste
for whiskey on lips.
and.. wasn't that always the point?
Feb 16, 2018
Feb 16, 2018 at 12:34 AM UTC
It isn't a game.
But one can definitely lose.
There are no competitors.
Yet self comparisons fog hind sight.
Leading to more dreary backroads that the world forgot about.
It was fun for a little while.
Telling yourself that you threw away the world and not vise versa.
Was truly the greatest lie.
One that grew into actual belief for a time.
But found that the greatest hell.
Is watching your paradise burn.
Bound only by disbelief.
Dumbfounded.
It's a shame that when you lose everything.
Somehow your mind is the only thing that stays intact.
As if those aspects were programmed into humans in preparation for it..
And happiness got the short end of the stick.
Then to further rub dirt into the wound we create hope.
By means of pursuit.
Shakespeare knew the questions.
And left it up to everyone else to answer.
Only as generations pass.
We couldnt be further from any resemblance of an answer.
Let alone know the question has already been proposed.
Writers play with this notion and yield no two pairs alike.
Lifes most important knowledge sadly can only come from experiencing it.
But with the world in such a desensitized state.
The fear of stagnation is becoming the only real possibility.
Preposterous?
No
Predetermined the moment we chose to let others choose for us.
There is no freedom.
Only sacrifice.
Right.
Aug 27, 2017
Aug 27, 2017 at 4:22 AM UTC
In the backroads there's a legend
By the old black hanging tree
That this is the old crossroads
Where the devil comes to me
There's nothing near, it's barren
But the tree and an old rope
It is dark, and bleak and distant
And all devoid of hope
Is this the famous crossroads
where the devil makes a deal
It depends on what you're willing
To trade and get his seal
There is a tale of Johnny
Who played and won his bet
He beat the Devil at his game
But, the Devil does not fret
For every Johnny that is lost
A million more are signed
Just look around the world and see
They just so easy for to find
The pious and believers
Pass the tree and it's ok
But, the souls who wish to trade up
Feel a reason for to stay
The Devil hears their pleas
And he comes up to their side
He brings along the contract
And then he takes them for a ride
Deals are made for money
and deals are made for fame
It doesn't matter to the Devil
He's the ruler of the game
You'll get your wish regardless
In trade he gets your soul
The only thing you need to know
Is that you are no longer whole
A contract is a contract
And redemption sets you free
But, to doublecross the devil
Isn't easy as you'll see
Johnny beat him fairly
And the Devil said that he
Will come and grab a million more
By the old, black, hanging tree.
May 7, 2013
May 7, 2013 at 12:20 PM UTC
Let's go grab the money
Hidden in the Christmas Tree
Shoppe mason jar with the
Frosted stencil designs,
Ornate and resembling flora.
Let's take that money,
The three separate wadded
***** of once crisp
Green pieces of paper
That somehow reach the
Arbitrary total of one
Thousand, three hundred and
Twenty dollars and
Fifty lonely cents.
Let's take that 1,320.50
And go see the desolate
Stretch of sprawling
Humanity deferred between
These hiked peaks and the
Dangerous mountains
Separating the west
From the rest.
Let's go there!
Let's go there!
We'll make it across,
Be sure of that,
Be sure of nothing
But that!
Let's use the remaining
Seven fifty
To buy some
Seven Eleven sustenance
To have while
We walk backwards
Down backroads edged
With the encroachment
Of the wild back into
Negative space some
Long-ago engineer
Carved and paved.
Let's tell the driver of
This beat-up
Time-worn down
Overcast grey
Buick LeSabre
That we can pay her
Ten dollars to replace
The juice necessary to get
Us back to our sick aunt's
House in Poughkeepsie.
At the gas station
We'll tell her to stop
Real quick
And hope she leaves the
Auto to go
Pay the schlup at
The teller's booth
And jack the beater
And hope we won't
Have to bolt
Again if she doesn't.
Let's call my cousin
And find out who will give
Us four hundred dollars for
The stolen used parts store
And take that four hundred
And buy:
Two (2) greyhound tickets to get us
Back to our ****** apartment
In Stamford: 64.50 American
Three (3) damp-bunned flimsy
Beef patties glued between
Pieces of government-issue
Yellow American cheese
With all the fixins we please: 3.24 American
One (1) zip of dried out
Seeded and stemmed breaks
From the boredom of
Our own conscious
Processes: 120 American if lucky
At least eight (8) servings
Of amphetamine based
Pressed little buttons
Of confused energy: 200 American
One (1) bouquet of
Red yellow and oranges
Mixed on the petals of
Your mother's favorite
Species: whatever's left American.
Oct 2, 2012
Oct 2, 2012 at 12:40 AM UTC
My ears keep popping every time I swallow.
There are rolling green hills with tiny winding backroads,
Small houses dotting the land like the freckles on your face.
There is fog, slowly swimming through the trees.
The blue mountains on the horizon are calling my name.
I think I am home.
May 10, 2013
May 10, 2013 at 8:07 PM UTC
*love is a rhythm i choose not to edit
burning serpents in syncopated tones
stolen vibrations from conquered nations
i am amazed at slavery's undertones
doomsday hypothesis
insufferable hypocrisy
is this the way we are meant to perceive
reality's final throes
perhaps a last attempt at infatuation
another insurgency toward our situation
there is music in the millipedes
1,000 feet stomping on the hot pavement
midday heat is burning the gentlest of trees
and yet saving lives of anteaters in need
grief is complete and not wasted
never jumbled by threads of frailty
insipid lipids deftly crawl upon caterpillars shoulders
starry eyed soldiers
sold to the streets in shivering brokenness
i am madness incarnate
the west is a spectacle of insubstantial lunacy
if you wish to conquer this reality
open your heart and kiss the feet of kindness
blindness is worshipped as if it was wisdom
sincere victims of another’s prison
simpler lives define simpler times
keepers of the rhythm
keepers of the rhyme
i dine on salamanders and supine slivers of the moon’s heartbeat
fault no one but yourself
gifts are wealth
i am salt and sulphur is the mother of the soul
loose cannons explode
she rode the wild shadows
and took the backroads all the way home
infinite living history
his memory serving beauty forever
for a lifetime i am looking for truth
in shattered space and respecting the face of the ancestors
self aware shades of solidarity
harvested by hands made light with clarity
is this music
is this meaning
her openness is our healing
this majesty surrounds us all
resolve to rise and your bound to fall
small instances of randomness daily
semantics are happenstance
you graduate from school with a bouquet of flowers
that rot in the morning’s splattering of paint
as garbage heaps resist ***********
issues of power and surface tension
i am dreading the exceptions
give love now or move out of the way
stay awake and aware
while sadhana is beckoning to us all*
Feb 23, 2017
Feb 23, 2017 at 2:58 PM UTC
The water on the ground
Is no longer fake,
As I take a look in the rearview.
Huh, I’m crying.
And it’s in this moment
I take a second
To accept the fact
I miss you.
Oh how I wish
I’d known,
Before driving
These backroads alone
My heart and soul
Are objects of old,
And bigger
Then they appear.
That this pathway to heaven
Gripped by desert horizon
Was just escape for a women
Who cannot function
And is blinded
By fear.
Well, that’s life.
I tried.
Goodbye.
I ride.
Until the end of time,
My dear.
Jan 21, 2023
Jan 21, 2023 at 9:42 PM UTC
You three believe in creating scarcity,
NOT union.
You build HOV lanes for your luxury cars,
caring less how efficient they are.
They roll royce cross your game board,
fuming trails of money.
Bell Atlantic bought Madison Avenue,
you bought all the properties.
Now tenants can't avoid
the traffic or the noise
of an internet rolled in palms
and diced
spiraling
to speed limits
...
...
...
...
and red highways
...
...
...
...
and orange traffic cones that
block hybrid cars,
already swerving
to avoid bankruptcy.
We
STOP
the
STOP
people
STOP
moving,
our preamble crumbles to a
STOP,
becoming a eulogy —
an ideal dumb to power trippery,
after Time Warner and Comcast merged,
allies on opposite sides of the game board.
Verizon, Comcast, AT&T;
together you own pretty much
everyone but Fox and Disney,
(yet have invested in them heavily).
Verizon, Comcast, AT&T;
your oligarchy is
NBC, Universal, CNN, Warner Brothers,
and now FullScreen,
family-friendly nepotism
that inbreeds bearing
deaf drones bored of flying,
over
Why Beyonce is a Feminist.
or
Why Ferguson was racist,
media's offspring
just keep clicking,
the headline genocide victims
basking in concentrated lamps
for a sliver of attention.
Verizon, Comcast, AT&T;
Now you want the backend buffering,
bulging eyes and emptying pockets
of those Spocked into believing,
hyperspeed was ever necessary.
No choice when the exits are slow
and there are no backroads.
Verizon, Comcast, AT&T;,
offspring of the
Bell Atlantic Company,
we will not let your
****** populate the internet.
Call it Capitalism,
but your playing Monopoly,
yanking the carpet underneath
to the wood of Tyranny.
You shamed
Bell's invention
by stringing together
telephone
internet,
and
entertainment companies
until you could be lazy.
Monkeys who spent millions
to shriek at government parties
about the communication machine,
a system downloaded so slowly,
we
did
not
act
on
cons
piracy
theories,
when Amazon made online shopping so easy.
Dear Internet Service Providers,
so called ISP's,
WE ARE DONE playing Monopoly.
Our collective voice
will shout blasphemy
on your streets,
hashtagged
net neutrality,
till you're counting pennies.
So empty your Washington banks
cause it's 3 a.m. and
no ONE is winning.
Nov 6, 2014
Nov 6, 2014 at 3:09 PM UTC
You told me that day,
"The girl I knew would never"
and filled the rest in with everything I've done
The girl I knew would never listen to rap or country music
The girl I knew would never have driven down the backroads going 70 . . . 80 . . . 90 ... 100 .. 110
The girl I knew would never think about themselves first
The girl I knew would never put their needs above anyone else's
The girl I knew would never wear such revealing clothing
The girl I knew would never been comfortable sharing their thoughts
The girl I knew would never feel sorry for themselves
The girl I knew would never feel comfortable in their own skin
The girl I knew would never stand up for themselves
The girl you used to know hated themselves
The girl you used to know was taken advantaged of and walked all over
The girl you used to know hid their true self
The girl you used to know would have sacrificed anything to satisfy you, even herself
The girl you used to know cried every night
The girl you used to know hurt herself when she couldn't feel anymore
The girl you used to know could never stand up to you
I'm glad you never really knew that girl
And I'm glad she became me
May 14, 2021
May 14, 2021 at 12:16 AM UTC
a hug that smelled like last summer.
'you didn't have to drive all this way for me'
it took me two hours
on the backroads because the freeway is scary
lost in neighborhoods where everything looked the same,
rows of shiny white teeth. it never crossed my mind to miss it.
how do his eyes burn impossibly blue,
even under the awning?
'the thing is, i had to'
he understood,
he understood just then that i was the girl he loved second best
and a sore loser always eyes the trophy cravingly
before walking away small.
'i'll miss you'
whose to say? i'll take silver & wonder if he ever wrote to
the other redhead.
Feb 16, 2011
Feb 16, 2011 at 11:37 AM UTC
i kept anticipating
blocked off entrances and
handwritten out-of-order signs
over gas station bathroom doors
that are rusting at the corners
because each time i got in my car
that smells like sweaty dog
and lavender
i found a reason to turn around
i convinced myself that
the green lights were not meant for me
only backroads and passenger seats
the sun was not there
when i kept going
the sky was full of grey
and i could feel the rain in my chest;
i didn’t need it to be a perfect summer day
i just needed to believe
that i had enough light within me
to make it through
Aug 10, 2018
Aug 10, 2018 at 4:48 PM UTC
i am a passenger
free to roam on the east sides
of redundancy and table manners
flower markets thrive on dawn skies
arranged as tourist spots
the baker's fair selling eggshells
cracked on cobblestone soup
meatpies sold out too soon
appleseeds scattered for birds
i sweep them all up
and see patterns grow on my skin
let it not be said i did not try, i did not do
for too soon the the heat covers the shade as well
and not even the acacia can go without thirst
fill my cup with honeydew milk
and add bittergourd and salt
i can let philistine warriors come from the backroads
and enter the frontlines
if only to join you
Mar 18, 2016
Mar 18, 2016 at 12:25 AM UTC
She has a shaved head
that reminds me of a
crooked-smile-ex;
that choked on cigarettes
and words too contrived,
painted in a negligence
for humanity and a
belief in uninformed
nothingness.
Her body curves like
backroads I've been lost in.
Skin as pale as an eggshell,
I'd imagine she'd shatter
under the olive robe
she calls a dress
and bounce under the
kickstep of organic flats.
Eventually she will become
too much of an idea, she will
evolve into a misogynistic
poem, and if I were
to imagine her naked,
guilt would flood our fleshly-
alcohol-stained-continents,
angry between every slur,
loving between the shadows
of phantoms I once knew.
Jun 26, 2016
Jun 26, 2016 at 3:05 PM UTC
I am alone
I walk the lonely backroads
not sure where I'm going,
but i know i've gotta go.
this is not wanderlust
it's merely broken trust
i kick the dirt beneath me,
and watch a cloud form from the dust.
I knew my father left us
I knew my mother cried
but it seems i never really knew
the hurtful reason why.
my long blonde hair
is what sent him there
to whatever town he lives in now;
i guess having a daughter made him scared.
I am alone
I walk the washed out, broken roads
not sure where i'm going,
but i know i can't go home.
Jul 15, 2013
Jul 15, 2013 at 11:01 AM UTC
I accost daylight, reviling in the promiscuity of the waken world
Come, be absent with me, enjoy the splendor of the famine
The only pleasure we’ll allow ourselves is that of a despondent heart
As we weaken the bonds that chain us, we’ll destroy ourselves
How can I rationalize my desires, their innocence shames me
To be reprehensible, oh such a glorious way to be
We ran through the streets encased in neon luminance
You, with your hope and rebellion
Me, in awe of you
This truancy, this desolate homage to backroads and swindled affairs
It leaves a longing to wear her fur coat, my makeup soiled beautifully
Those nights of dreams, and dreams, and dreams, resurrect disenchanted
As I lay aching, biting the the cold steel for the knowledge of ones price
The nullity welcomes a confusion, searching for a fragment of familiarity
Wanting and wishing back the stale taste of the endless mornings
I’ll bring with me the calm, the reassurance of futile worth
The length is calculated, the smirking clock relishing in his dismal pace
We trade the dampened moss as the stars scoff at our ignorance
They whisper, piercing the darkness with their reminder
three moons, alas three moons
Feb 11, 2013
Feb 11, 2013 at 5:46 PM UTC
Gravel, dirt or old blacktops
cruising around, not many stops
through a pasture or tunnel of trees
backroad therapy sets your soul free
Driving around, might even get stuck
No high dollar cooler in back of my truck
Just an old igloo, full of beer on ice
Drink them to fast for that yeti price
Backroads and beer
Nobody else here
No cops around
Jamming country sounds
Just me, my lady, my old red heeler
Flip channels, check score, cowboys and Steelers
Blanket and a picnic behind the seat
Pull over in the shade for an afternoon treat
Might stop at the creek for a skinny dip
Squeeze her tight and kiss her lips
Chasing each other and splashing water
Keeping cool as the evening gets hotter
Backroads and beer
Nobody else here
No cops around
Jamming country sounds
Mountains blue, pop the top
This is so fun may never stop
Out in the country is the place to be
No suit, no tie, completely free
Ol red starts barking, sees a rabbit
Pull over, he jumps out to grab it
The chase is on, we watch and see
Reds tongue is flapping but rabbit ran free
Backroads and beer
Nobody else here
No cops around
Jamming country sounds
Sep 18, 2016
Sep 18, 2016 at 10:59 PM UTC
Racing through backroads
You watch as stars appear as if from nowhere.
Freshly born, newly created
Made only for you and him to know.
You don't know where you're going
But you'll go anywhere with him
So you aren't worried.
Anywhere he goes immediately becomes a good place.
He drives far too fast through unknown townships
If you can ever call them that.
But it's still dark enough there that you just
Stare out the window; you put your arm out to feel the night.
You stop in a dirt road
Abandoned, for all intensive purposes.
Lay on the hood and watch the stars
As if it's a PG-13 romantic comedy.
He gives you the stars
And you have nothing to give in return
So you just try to take in the universe.
You just want to reach out and touch it.
And as you leave you watch the stars disappear
Fading back into the city lights.
You wonder if the universe holds a funeral for a dying star
You wonder if this has all been orchestrated by the cosmos.
Aug 2, 2010
Aug 2, 2010 at 8:57 AM UTC
In the finer lines of my Mother's eyes
where backroads lead to secret tears
much is spoken when one explores
the map that etches those many years
expressed in smiles and subtle stares
when the world is harsh and cruel
calm washes through your tested soul
that stings of ridicule
in the finer lines of my Mother's eyes
life's riches are retained
and the wells that feed her loving child
through those eyes are sustained
Jan 3, 2016
Jan 3, 2016 at 10:39 AM UTC
Visions of light waves do not suit me
And your groups of smirks make me uneasy
I'd rather light candles deep in seclusion
Or spin with my mind until I am queasy
Your shoes are fine but I'd never buy
There are no backroads in my book
I've never been quite dulled to understand
The admiration of masses in just one look
Maybe perhaps I am a cube
A simplistic shape of many dimensions
And maybe perhaps you are too
Two cubes coexisting with separate intentions
Oct 25, 2013
Oct 25, 2013 at 2:48 AM UTC
Page unwritten hand never to be
played.
Outcasts sitting at center stage.
When you never showed love.
It's no need to question why no one ever stayed.
And you never wondred and new better
to ask.
Cause people grew tired of the game.
And you of the mask.
Deep emotin with which like
overgrown children we play.
Gone in a second.
Was it love or just another day.
Torn sails endless flow.
Blocks and miles.citys and backroads.
Like any flock we scatter.
Only to lose track the futher we go.
Dellusion speaks well amoungnst friends.
You see it's the last farewell.
But with truth in are thoughts
everyone pretends.
Are you okay everyone does ask.
You give a expected reply.
And slip into oblivian slowley
fading behind your mask.
Feb 10, 2010
Feb 10, 2010 at 5:38 PM UTC
If there is one thing I won’t ever forget,
it’s the feeling of almost.
The overwhelming sensation of wanting to cradle love in my hands like a newborn child and craving desperately to grasp it with a resilience that echoed in a prism of colors that screamed
“I will never let you go.”
But he always seemed to slip through the spaces between my fingers, as if he had a soul coated effortlessly with butter. Gentle enough to allow me to graze my fingertips against it, never vulnerable enough to let me in.
With time I’ll forget the rush of flailing helplessly into the depths of his eyes. I’ll forget the numbness I felt tracing imaginary pathways down the curvature of his spine, backroads along the ridges of his hands. I’ll forget feeling the closest I’ve ever been to flying, as if I’ve been tied down to a railroad and freed just seconds before my potential demise. I’ll forget the resonance of our favorite songs and the slam of back doors and how none of it even mattered when I was with him. We were relative, limitless, the kind of unrequited love that leaves your knees shaking, your breath stuck in your throat, a permanent cycle of bracing for impact.
But loving him wasn’t enough. I craved an understanding that always felt unfulfilled at dusk, always being left with emptiness and an ever-growing gap that felt incomplete. I wasn’t flying, I was falling. I wasn’t loving, I was chasing. I let him memorize the way I liked my tea and the titles of the books that I could reread over and over again until I realized that the best parts of me had been given away to a stranger. The shadow of a person I thought I knew, but only ever understood a fraction of. An enigma. A lonely intrigue. Another almost.
I’ll forget the silent scream that reverberated in my throat when I realized that he could look at me and feel nothing at all. An absence. A wasted chance. An impending goodbye. I’ll forget everything except our last exchange of glances and the pivotal decision I made to change my promise of “I will never let you go” to “I almost loved you.” The moment I decided to leave behind our masterpiece, our canvas of watercolor love now left to ruin in the rain.
-m.g. “Almost”
Aug 6, 2015
Aug 6, 2015 at 10:13 PM UTC
Can we jam, brothers and sisters?
Dare we meet at the impalpable chat room
that exists beyond our third heaven?
Dare we to speak in tongues and timbres,
our skin taut across hollow shells,
our veins strung across cadaverous bodies?
I'll grab my drumsticks if you grab the guitars,
and there's somebody on the bongos
slappin' the skins with zealous fervor--
where my tambourine girls at?
Don't worry, I haven't forgotten our forlorn hero
sitting behind the keyboards--
Tickle me those ivories with pious hands and aching fingers,
shake em down sweet Jerry Lee!
And so we begin--
I lay down the drum beat that bops heads and scatters feet,
and the bassman always on top of things
slaps and slides and skips and sizzles
hot diggity dog!
I hear that sweet guitar scream and moan,
praying for death under hazy lights
and we all coast with eyes rolled back into our skulls
and torpid lips drooped open over slack jaws.
Not a word is said from a human voice,
we speak through hands and feet,
basking in colors eking from every kick drum stomp
and the desperate wail bleeding from amplifiers.
Feedback sings and screams, fighting the silence we taunt
and hold at bay.
Around every corner the colors trail
coursing through our vesselious bodies
propelled along the dizzying venture.
We somehow spot every pothole and take detours,
embarking down backroads and backalleys--
We can turn the wheel,
but don't think for a moment we know where it's going.
And the mirror's have all vanished,
we know not from where we came.
Someone shouts from the discovery
as we exit a phrase to enter serendipity,
toying with destiny, clay in our hands,
stretching out the ****** perennially--
We laugh as the gods try to remind us we are Man.
And the screams and the moans
sensing the ****** is getting close
so there's a crescendo I ramp up the tempo
ahhhhhhhHHHhhhHhHhHhHHHHHhhhETERNITY IS NOW AND WE HOLD THE KEY TO HEAVENS GATES AND TIME STANDS STILL AT HIGH NOON IN THE TOWN'S SQUARE WHERE TRIGGER FINGERS TREMOR AND WE SPEAK TO GOD ON HIS PRIVATE CHANNEL COMING THROUGH WORN SPEAKERS CELESTIAL CREATURES IT WOULD BE SACRILEGE IF WE WEREN'T SUDDENLY SO HOLY HOLY HOLY HOLY HOLY HOLY HOLY HOLY HOLY
So I say again, brothers and sisters,
can we jam?
SO I SAY AGAIN, BROTHERS AND SISTERS,
CAN WE JAM?
SO I SAY AGAIN, BROTHERS AND SISTERS,
CAN WE JAM?
So I say again,
brothers and sisters,
can we jam?
Jul 10, 2016
Jul 10, 2016 at 12:39 AM UTC
and the smoke is the warmest thing this night.
you light my cigarettes,
and i want to kiss you.
i can't i can't i cant.
you.
once. it was.
but we were both so broken.
we couldn't feel it.
it clicked in my heart,
like the flint in your lighter,
sometime after it became forbidden.
maybe because it is forbidden?
maybe because it is trust?
because i could always trust you.
because you never ****** me over.
because.
you listen. and i listen to you.
i trust your judgement.
i know you won't let us fall off the cliff,
fall into the ditch, get addicted,
get caught,
break.
and you know, because as i drove erratically,
i told you, only half meaning to.
and you know that nothing can come of it.
forbidden. would hurt.
i think i just want you to know that you're worth. . .
"it was good."
"we'll just leave it at that."
and we do. and today. i avoided the us.
but it would have been good.
Feb 8, 2010
Feb 8, 2010 at 8:17 PM UTC