"baiting" poems
Lurid pressure in perfect hiding,
Heat rises amidst quiet timing.
Covers conceal fingers,
And skin conceals-
Well,
Only from the blinded.
Flitting breath from lungs to neck,
Begging tongue,
And baiting breast.
Tentative flesh,
Upon tentative flesh,
What comes next?
Anything I want,
If this is,
Yes.
Dec 12, 2018
Dec 12, 2018 at 10:03 PM UTC
Trapped in a cage with golden bars of light
Of ancient habit and direful duties;
Below the water crashed into the bight,
The whispering waves baiting with beauties.
But her shadow lurked around the coast,
Dashing her to the beach like drifting wood.
Preventing her from what she wanted the most
To reach new shores from where she stood.
She wanted to travel and sail the open sea
Beyond the shingle, seaweed and shells
Closer to the horizon where the birds flew free
Or to the arenaceous ground in diving bells.
And coming back to where she started
She found her seaside changed since she has parted.
Or did the widening horizon change her perceiving?
For returning was not the same as never leaving.
Sep 4, 2018
Sep 4, 2018 at 10:37 AM UTC
**No Justice, No Peace
If we can't get it from the Court
then we'll take it from the Streets
No Justice, No Peace
**** the Police
and what you believe!**
Whatever happened to Revolution
Being the American way?
When your voice remains unheard
For which you suffer every day,
Your life is constantly stepped on,
Your rights keep getting taken away,
And in spite of the lies they spin to protect your oppressors,
You still keep the rage at bay
Because you are not
Above the Law
and neither is anyone else.
So taking matters into your own hands
Isn't going to help.
You entrust the justice system
to do what it's supposed to
Even though you know it never has
and is probably never going to.
But if you haven't done anything wrong and the Law doesn't serve you,
and only seems to defend the people who've already hurt you,
then honestly I think it's insane and completely absurd to
not only expect the People not to react,
but to honor a curfew.
**** YOU**
Do you hear us yet?
**** YOU**
Oh, it's inappropriate?
You don't wanna talk about it?
You don't wanna think about it?
You don't wanna deal with it?
Well guess what?
Nobody ******* does, nobody ******* would, nobody ever ******* could.
But for the people who don't look like you -
Aryan Beauty Standards
Hair of Gold, Eyes of Blue
Fair-skinned, light-skinned
European skeleton,
It was never a choice they had.
Oppression doesn't pick you
Based on qualifications
Any more than Privilege does,
If you think this case
Is not about race
You better check your Privilege, cuz.
I love my home, America
But I hate what it's become
Land of the greedy, home of the afraid
Kingdom of the Loud and Dumb
Slut-shaming, victim-blaming, race-hating, race-baiting
Sensationalization of the worst crimes in the nation
Religious intolerance, homophobic misogyny, blatant racial discrimination
Can't get with it, can't hang
At least not in the lynch mob sense
I am blown the **** away
at the grievous absence of common sense.
So when they lit those flags on fire
in the center of the town
*I understand, and I can't blame them
the flag is truer up in flames now*
And if they so decide to burn
the city to the ground,
*I understand, and I can't blame them
I would wanna burn it down*
**No Justice, No Peace
If we can't get it from the Court
then we'll take it from the Streets
No Justice, No Peace
**** the Police
and **** your Beliefs!**
Nov 26, 2014
Nov 26, 2014 at 5:57 PM UTC
those **** trolls fish for gloom
baiting your roses and bloom
behind their mask and costume
a guise filled with malice loom
there spans from the beasts womb
a monster preying your doom
they take your light to dark displume
like fishes facing the jaws of gloom
eliot watches schools get entomb
like a stepping stone to their fume
it takes no rocket scientist's broom
to sweep the trolls from the classroom
nears the hour of our death, trolls resume
Logan Robertson
8/21/2018
Aug 21, 2018
Aug 21, 2018 at 9:00 PM UTC
Ganders...gargantua--ensconced in far-fetched space...
(attrition)...LOOK AT THAT LINE...LOOK AT IT...
ROUND THE CORNERS OF PERPETUITY...predilections.
A soul's inalienable fracas...on bend and knee...hop...and
whoop...miasmic gargoyles poppy-wreathed...
for all-too-lucid dreaming...chanting etceteras of bare riff raffs.
Golden breastplates...weeping willow wings...empurpled--
fending fang trumping lines of: yuck, cluck, claw and kook.
...Listless eyes...alphabetize...think a blind oracle's informed
absentia...holy and bovine.
Redolent airs...perspiration of spume's most distancing shore--
eyepieces for the specks and logs in the oculos of brothers
and sisters.
As dust to dust doth not settle...heart's yonder score...nay cease
of interstice...off-world amorousness.
Gather ye yarrow sticks...hurl them at days...roofless arcady...
live into the spectra of their worlds, come friend or foe...Fate's foundling.
Lines strung as prayer beads...curs-ed beads...forget-me-nots
enclosed in letters baiting Long Farewells, in the great literary
correspondence of authored and Author.
...Ye gorgeous gargoyles come perch and push.
Persona non grata...the wide world...unisex prodigal...All--returneth.
LOOK AT THAT LINE...LOOK AT IT...(attrition)...ROUND THE
CORNERS OF PERPETUITY.
NEBULAEIC FANFARE...come perch to push...lo...ANGELS!
Nov 18, 2013
Nov 18, 2013 at 12:35 PM UTC
Sunrise at Newgrange
and
Sunset at Stonehenge.
Value those precious
hours of light
before it is devoured
by the devious night.
The dense darkness
can sense your fears
and hear your tears
Soon to devour
your sour flesh
Leaving a fresh
carcass in the darkness
And where is my
Great Dark Hope?
Gone to get the rope
Or
hiding in the shadows
waiting
baiting her time
Until we are at our weakest
The last thing we will see
are the Darkest Eyes
then hope no more
As our door is closed
and locked
This is the Winter Solstice
This bitter hiss
Death's long and last kiss
Dec 20, 2014
Dec 20, 2014 at 8:56 PM UTC
ADP and ATP,
DNA calamity.
RNA provides ridicule and cruelty.
Death note delivery.
Blood laughs and screams as it pours from slit veins.
It doesn't care about the souls its owner has stained!
What have you feigned?
What selflessness remains?
None to be sure as parasitic reality you frame.
What are we then?
Surely not worth baiting.
An existential lion's den.
But does it matter if we're waiting?
The most important question is "When?"
We exist to cause our problems,
to eliminate the heretic race.
It's a race that know one wins when,
They always have their problems to chase.
So enlighten us with,
Your sacred soul's bliss,
Or grow up from this tantrum of toil and ****
Science of religion,
An oxymoron to say the least.
It is one thing to take the message.
Another to let your mind waste.
Savor what you have to the nucleus of your soul.
Know what makes you righteous.
Know it well and full.
Know what you live life for.
We're abiotic to assume that we "know" things we won't search for.
Dec 10, 2013
Dec 10, 2013 at 10:08 AM UTC
She walked out of the watercolor storm of a fresco
Like a cowl-bound form in a light drizzle of rain,
Her mosaic tiles of ancient lovers’ eyes, ceramic-borne,
Just as her hips held the curves of the urn, kiln-fired,
The coiled heat of Greece still stinging through her flesh.
For her, the treetops had been the summoners of storm,
In kind, she poured down the wet grove of her hair, electral,
Pantheress of humid breath and fanged flair of lightning,
Tamed once in the cloudy cage of Pentelic marble of the Parthenon.
But the world piled dust before her, baiting with its groveled roads,
For her black mullings, much-tasted rain, and heaven’s leaves to fall.
If only the Michelango-to-come had carved the clouds of her
For the light to remain, shining its centuries,
Then maybe the thunder would have been left undone.
Sep 5, 2019
Sep 5, 2019 at 2:17 PM UTC
Sometimes I'm not sure
The battle between
Right and wrong,
What is best
It's confusing
And kills time
Debating
Baiting
Anticipating
Go with your heart
When there is ***** involved
Explain yourself
Life isn't fair
Those are the rules
Mar 31, 2015
Mar 31, 2015 at 2:14 AM UTC
Whether it's winter and skiing,
or it's spring site-seeing,
Either summer and biking,
or even late fall hiking;
Whistler has it all.
From snowshoeing to canoeing,
even as far as golf to frolf,
Whistler is the place to be,
with so much for you to see.
There's zip-lining to fine dining,
or ice skating and fish baiting,
including a tour of bears,
you choose your story to share.
Many come from far away,
just to live the Whistler day,
as we bring people together,
while they make memories forever,
because Whistler has it all.
Mar 22, 2015
Mar 22, 2015 at 3:05 PM UTC
One day I felt that sleep would do me good, and that one day just never stopped.
Falling without feeling,
without thinking,
even knowing.
This steadiness sees nothing end.
A constant,
a stagnant,
there's no such thing as propulsion;
no say or do of any kind.
Just this bleak, empty void, that fogs up my mind.
Begingings must come for an end.
I'd stay there, just not here.
Next time I might know when.
You stood across, the corner's gaslight.
Watching, baiting, biding your time waiting,
tell me what you mean by those words.
But I can't ask.
I forget, I'm asleep.
That night is so long ago.
I'd wish it back here, replay the scene, in the doorway.
Change my words,
just this once.
One last time.
Instead, I'm asleep.
Stare into the white.
Stretch to see,
understand what you mean,
there is no possibility.
Nov 13, 2012
Nov 13, 2012 at 12:43 AM UTC
Has not enough been said
About Cecil, the Lion?
This has brought me to tears.
For those who don't know
Cecil lived in a Wild Life park
In Zimbabwe.
There was no hunting allowed
So, some sick *******
Who is a big game hunter
Dragged a antelope carcass
So that Cecil would
Come out of the park.
He, then, shot Cecil
With an arrow
And Cecil was tortured
Over forty hours.
Cecil was tracked down,
He was shot with a gun,
He was decapitated,
He was skinned.
How is it that
What is so magnificent
As a Lion
Is seen as nothing
But a head and skin
To decorate your living room?
I've been to Kenya
And Tanzania.
They are glorious creatures
In the wild.
Why not just take a photo?
Or just enjoy their magnificence
And then leave
With your enhanced soul?
They say psychopaths
Practice on animals first
This sick pathology
Has to end, not only for
Animals but humans well.
This man had a felony conviction
For baiting black bears.
He belongs in prison
Although many think
He should be decapitated
As well.
People are angry.
And Cecil's Cubs?
I used to watch a show
Called:
"Big Cat Diaries"
And their fate is sealed
As well.
Lions practice infanticide
And when a new male
Comes to Cecil's pride
He will **** all of Cecil's offspring
To make their mothers
Go into estrus
So they can breed.
One cub has been killed
And not much hope for
The other eight.
Our neighbors bait
Black bears, **** them,
Skin them, stuff them
And put them in their house.
They seem to just enjoy
Killing things for no reason
They find great joy
In killing things.
They seem like
Nice enough people
But when you have
So little respect for Life
Can't it haunt
Your human ties?
I honestly feel
Like someone
Has shot my dog.
And it makes me weep,
Though the story
Is now old.
This man should
Go to prison,
And in Zimbabwe.
Send the world
A huge message
That we are not Neanderthals
We don't have to
To **** things
Out of sheer joy.
We should not reduce
Living things to
Heads and hides.
Sep 8, 2015
Sep 8, 2015 at 2:04 PM UTC
In grass of deception, the snake lies waiting,
With venom'd fangs, 'n jaws dilating,
Salivating, watching, baiting,
Sure to pounce, mutilating.
With forked tongue, she paints my heart black,
Sinks sharp talons into flesh o' bare back,
Drips her poison into my kidneys,
Cuts my innocence in myriad pieces.
My name is Silence; my job to suffer,
To make no sound, nor word to utter,
For though the dragon spits forth fire,
George'll guard himself from ire.
Oct 8, 2018
Oct 8, 2018 at 1:07 PM UTC
She is like no other, always in her necktie.
I knew her before the necktie, before many
the body manipulations, but not all. I'd stare,
engrossingly, at elongated lobes, the wardrobe.
I, now, her technophobe, longing to digital
age do her. "It's complicated," we call it.
How I long to stand next to her at the bus stop,
like we used to do. Waiting, staring, baiting,
glaring, like we used to do, at Fillmore and Haight,
while we'd wait. Didn't care if my bus came and
left, sometimes I'd just wait for hers, to follow
her aboard. I think she liked the way I stalked her.
Me in my blah corporate attire and necktie,
her in her outlandishly wonderful. Going to work
those days were keen broad bean, where we'd
convene, sometimes out on the scene, or where
folks ought not be seen. And we'd just look,
for long periods. If we spoke, it was egg white polite.
But that was then and this is now and now we
chat all naughty fun. I call her my baby, my honey-bun,
my long distance impassioned one. Virtual realities
do often please, something I like about the tease.
If ever again together, I'll be on my knees. She's
my fiancée and we plan to tie the knot.
Guess I'll be tattooing a matching necktie.
Dec 21, 2015
Dec 21, 2015 at 7:44 PM UTC
Inspired by Emily Dickinson’s Life.
As the clock strikes
midnight in a perfect world,
they only want to know one thing:
What does your soul look like?
In the beginning, three sat together
in darkness, sweating and chewing miraa,
talking of unlikely things and dreams
while ******* down Tusker.
It was refreshing to be nobody,
soft baiting the line
and wasting time
gambling shilingi.
The sun outside set sooner than expected,
dipping well below the low buildings,
so they ventured out into the cobalt
blue evening, not thinking too much
about who might be listening,
speaking bravely as their words
and jokes slowed down beside
shadows beyond the city lights.
Laughing more, the three hopped on
a matatu at Kimkambala, smelling
the final wisps of dinner in each
passing village, watching as a purse
got pulled just paces from the road,
until they got off by Fort Jesus.
Further and further, they treaded home,
walking alongside the Indian Ocean -
Through the thick, green night, almost
fog-like, tip-toeing by an old man and
his flashlight; he slept soundly on
the steps of that corner storefront.
The three whispered their goodbyes,
and headed separate ways.
The youngest of them slid easily between the
narrow alleyways, and finally through braided
black bars. With the turn of a treasure-chest key,
he was back in the courtyard, walking past the
stripped bones of yesterday’s catch, where he
decided to make his permanent address, today.
He had dwelled where dreams are born,
but only for a day, and searched to find
sunset in the tip of a cup – when the
sunset was enough. He knew
that it was too much as he asked
a stranger to fill him up to the brim,
and told him not to worry, he would
say “when.” He had worked hard to
lay down his guilt on the altar, and not
return to gin, making this decision:
He decided that being
born to homeless winds
doesn’t mean that you
have to be homeless, and
as he climbed the broom-swept
maroon steps, up to the roof, he
breathed deeply. How pleasant
it was to look out onto the sea,
reflecting the pearly moon,
so beautifully.
Feb 16, 2011
Feb 16, 2011 at 12:49 PM UTC
Try as I might
To ignore the insufferable
Clamorous racking my brain
All too audible
Are these despicable
Sickening shrill
Voices wicked, malicious,
Insipid kids still
Instigating and baiting
Me closer to spill
My contempt vitriol
Seething passion to ****
Every little last filth-frothing
Mouth to feed dead
Bottom-fed in this
Stress-induce cesspool are bred
In an **** of virulent,
Ignorant stench
Still entrenching my senses
In sieges of tension
And drenching my clenching jaws
In reprehension
Spat out in the face
Of this whole human race
But mostly just this
Poor excuse for its waste
Nov 23, 2018
Nov 23, 2018 at 6:10 AM UTC
This is not a rhyme
this is not a poem
there is no hidden messages between ambiguous word
or conveyed through complex metaphors
this is the tears of my heart
bleeding
fuelling me
so that I can find the courage to speak
to speak the words of my soul
the words I've been dying to say
... no
to scream!!!
The words I've been dying to shout out
as a proclamation to the whole world...
I DON'T LOVE YOU
I DON'T because I don't know what love is
but I do know you make me wonder
you make me philosophize about it
about what it feels like
I DON'T know what love is...
but you make me feel
something that must be close to it
...
if not better
I think about you ALL the time...
there is not a moment that passes where I don't think of you...
not a single message from you at which I don't smile
not a single night where I hate the dawn of sleep, because it means goodbye
ALL OF MY FRICKEN POEMS ARE ABOUT YOU
last night when you were here...
in the three seconds that we kissed
in those mere blinks of an eye
when our lips softly brushed
... I was paralysed
... It was the first time in my life where my mind was COMPLETELY quiet
the first time I didn't instruct myself through a kiss
and just let go...
now your scent is stuck to me...
I smell it all the time
the smell is intoxicating
and I think of you with every breath I take
unwillingly falling further and further into your arms...
and so I call you...
just to hear your voice...
just to hear you laugh at what I say...
because hearing your voice makes my day...
the sound of your laughter...
it's a toe curling
goosebump-giving
heart-wrenching
pulse-rising
start-smiling
start-crying
but never nail baiting...
because I know you hate that
... sort of sound.
and I envy the guy who is lucky enough to have you
I envy him with all my heart.
I have a bitterness towards him compared by only few...
and a sadness towards you compared to no other greatness...
why can't you see
that his love for you is not...
nor will it ever be...
the same as my NOT-LOVE for you
can't you see he doesn't give you the romance and the happiness you deserve
the laughter and the acceptance and the complete free will...
can't you see that I adore you
... so much so that I have turned into this monster who envies...
one who feels bitter towards someone he has never met!!!
I am lost without you...
I want you...
I need you...
I want to need you...
I Better-than-love you
I xoxo you and mwa you
forever and continuous
(not-)love (- but better)
me...
Oct 19, 2013
Oct 19, 2013 at 6:12 PM UTC
There's a Tale of hare
named Bugs, wisecracking
Brooklyn speedster
who raced against
a Tortoise green.
Mercedes grey speeding
along, distancing
a schlepping spect,
a North Face jacket
on fruitcake's trek.
4000 fast
and sleek.
8 slow
and green.
Neither racers strangely
notice that child
born on dented stripes,
warning bumps
by side road way.
Is life a sacred race?
Marriage sacrament
a finishing face?
Dying memories trace
a cove and net
lacing U and who?
What's up Doc?
Eating healthy,
eating carrots?
I hear your voice
who's love does bare.
False Saffron leiter
extort and retorts weiter!
Komisch verwaltung
Schwartz holzteer
baiting babies to finish fear.
A cartoon film
skipping and tear
telling a child's tale
reel ending here.
Feb 16, 2013
Feb 16, 2013 at 7:23 AM UTC
lips upon swell of breast,
caresses like a dance in
bated breath; a cry of
hunger unclothed to
nakedness; mouth travels
south, seeking to quench
libidinous drought; tongue
glides, nibbling kisses;
silently I sigh, each taste
he gets thicker as I become
wickedly *****
scents of honeysuckle
permeates the air as
tongue teases hardened
strobe; I glow within his
nature and he whispers in
elated breaths; I arch against
masculinity in sultry
poses, smiling in blushed
tints, fore, he knows me
and tells of his wants
to satiate my needs like
a rose opens its petals to
a bee's need; to suckle its
sepal of sweet nectar's
honey, sipped in little nips
inebriating his wanton
longing, he breaches
my honeycomb in gentle
easements...flushed
he whispers against nape
of neck as hands control
movement of hip, tongue
glides against silken thigh;
in foolery baiting to entrap
me within his desirous
taunts of beggary...I sigh
Jun 12, 2012
Jun 12, 2012 at 2:29 AM UTC
My tongue flicks
Absent mindedly
Discovering and rediscovering
The new sensation
Of a missing tooth
Or a kernel of food
wedged in my gums
Or a ****** cheek
Bit ferociously while chewing.
In my same manor
My thoughts stroke
the idea of you,
Feeling for any new details
i may have missed
My first time
across your surface.
a mark, wrinkling
beneath your eye
a small tattoo
above your elbow
a delicate crease
where your head
meets your neck.
Subtleties of self
are everything to me.
you hold your cigarette
between hits,
bent backwards between
thumb and middle finger
as if subconsciously,
you know
you’re damning yourself.
You hold your elbows
When you cross your arms
As though you are afraid,
Should you relax your grip
The contents of your chest
Will spill out before you
Like a toppled canister
Of produce remnants,
Juicy, sloppy, and sopping
But you speak quietly,
like a discarded bag
of shredded documents.
Rustling with partial importance
I try to piece together
your comments
almost as though your words
hang beneath the weight
of your breath
as an afterthought
of your exhalation.
I watch you
watch me,
calmly calculating
baiting conversations
with tactful insinuation
and later,
in deep rumination
they replay.
I select the moments
That fit the narrative
I've created,
rummaging through
until what I want
you to mean
is all I hear you say.
Mar 1, 2017
Mar 1, 2017 at 12:19 AM UTC
Qualified Abstinence
I’ve decided - though not wholly -
As of morning’s bath - to put on hold
The daily custom, habit’s viewing -
NCIS, Dr Phil - suspecting as I do
That they are doing me some harm
Engaging, charming
as they are.
Mind as thought and mind as stomach,
Turn to worry, churn with fear
As states of things in world and home,
Play out the clearer,
Signs maturing in their chaos,
Ever growing, ever baiting;
Making brilliant, analytical dear Phil
Ever more mouth-watering.
Well-loved NCIS plays its part,
Portraying nations torn apart
With ever cleverer technologies
And cleverer–type baddies
Getting ‘theirs’ from even smarter good guys.
If then, strong enough to not back off,
The morning TV staying off,
Then maybe, only maybe
This old belly
Can restore its tranquil peristalsis,
Family squabbles turning babble to a kiss.
Phil, dear Phil, continue to be wise and kind!
NCIS’ cast: brave, cuddly and seasoned -
Flag unfurled, continue to engage yourselves
In world salvation!
Stationing my thoughts in action,
I must leave you both
To carry myself into truth
As cellular Arlene conceives, perceives,
Inherently achieves it.
(If, of course, l don’t fall back into the -
(crude, ill-mannered rude word) shit!
Qualified Abstinence 7.20.2014
Pure Nakedness; Our Times, Our Culture II;
Arlene Corwin
arlene corwin poetry.com
Jul 20, 2016
Jul 20, 2016 at 2:29 PM UTC
I sit and watch
the season pass --
the swallows
have flown south.
Sparrows huddle
in the trees,
waiting to be fed.
The leaves have
begun to turn --
acorns litter the ground.
All the colors:
the yellow willow,
the orange maple,
verging pink.
The browns and
purples,
surround me now.
The mighty elm,
Autumn's last sentinel,
stands tall, baiting
Winter with its chill.
Soon bare branches,
skeleton trees,
will haunt the skyline
and pine-cones will fall
with any sudden
wind.
Soon I'll bundle
against the cold,
trudging through the
snow,
waiting for daffodils
and Spring's delights.
Oct 18, 2010
Oct 18, 2010 at 10:10 AM UTC
It still may be the creeper yet
You just can't tell and that's just as well
Cause if you knew you'd lose that bet
Just might be the creeper
I said it just might be the creeper
It just might be the creeper, slow in coming, soft and humming
Hitting ceilings, hurtin' feelings, feeling like you sold your soul to a
Brilliant confusion in an infinite illusion that goes on and on and on and on and on
Yes, my race-baiting people, the creeper this might be
When that creeper finds you he will open up your soul
He will show you where your third eye used to be and give you his own
Yeah that's a mighty fine creeper, Yeah that's a mighty fine creeper
Ya don't even know you're so high
Yeah, ya don't know cuz you're high
Well, baby, is it creeper yet?
Has it made you doubt you mind?
Were you running round in circles till it
Snuck up from behind you did it
Make a sound as if lifted from the ground
It finds it's way straight into the heart of everything you believe
Convinces you, you've been decieved
But don't be afraid of the creeper, darling
He ain't selling you nothing you don't want
Ya shake the hand of the devil
Ya say it's all on the level
So by God it's all on the level
In your mind
But you walked away and left it behind
It's been gone so ******* long
We all know she ain't ever coming home
I get lazy sometimes
In my body and my mind
I know I ain't the only
Complicated schizophrenic in the world
And I ain't the only one who
Loves me some creeper
Yes I loves me some creeper
I'm down with the creeper
Hope he's
Down with me
The hissing fan on my aging laptop
Sounds like a woman being tortured
With varying degrees of severity
It's beginning to sound like music to me
Baby, tonight would be a good night
For you to surprise me
I ain't been surprised in so long
This is the creeper speaking
Y'all have a good night, ya hear?
Nov 13, 2015
Nov 13, 2015 at 10:33 PM UTC
Another morning up too soon
for the alarm clock to go off.
Another day to turn out rough.
Fishermen with new methods of baiting
tell me, teach me what it is to wait,
to patiently create
a small chance of catching
the right fish for tonights meal.
Any sound can obtain a meaning.
Any message can be leaning
towards another point.
Dec 24, 2014
Dec 24, 2014 at 7:13 PM UTC
And if I make it til tomorrow, I'll let you knock me down to size. I'll stop this ugly petty show. I won't ask you to empathize.
And if tomorrow comes for me, I won't be so self absorbed, I'll do more for you and them, I won't leave you so ignored.
And if I make it til tomorrow, I'll tell my Dad it's not his fault. I'll take the blame for my side of things, I'll be more grateful for what he brought.
And if tomorrow comes for me, I'll fight the urge to rediscover what that needle's all about, I'll leave that up to another.
(and I won't have to write that note apologizing to my mother.)
And if I make it til tomorrow, I'll take the time to treat you right. I'll back off when you are tired, I'll back you up in the fight.
But today is no good, there's nothing left, I'm all alone. I burned each bridge back to life, I've blocked the route to hope and love. So, so long, goodbye tomorrow, I wont be there if you come. Tonight, I'm here, freeing you, as I become a setting sun. Just like that stupid song that was sang by Neil Young.
Mar 28, 2017
Mar 28, 2017 at 5:45 PM UTC