now, what exactly are you, blonde, blue-eyed boy?
with your kiss like nicotine and your touch like silk
your eyes like a glass pool
your lips oh-so-chapped and bitten
you're tragic and damaged
you're a habit, a routine
nothing you would expect from just a blonde, blue-eyed boy.
How funny is it
That to be blonde
Mean a myriad of things
One who is blonde is
But never boring
Blonde is thought to be a mark of perfection
Stronger white supremacy
Are there not a brunette with the same attributes
Are there not matronly persons with red hair
Or no hair at all
Why does such arbitration continually define us
Mere colors shape who we are
Than a more fair method
Who decided this
How do we fix it
There she is
the girl with the dirty blonde hair
Shes takes form of the sun
and brightens my day
I hang on every word from her
no matter what she has to say
When i see her
my heart begins to pop
She is my dirty blonde, acid drop
Why cant i have her
I dont know why
When it comes to the girl with the dirty blonde hair
she is my life's
like blue blisters in the sun her eyes pierce me
through with a fierce reckoning as she looks on
"you can't keep me here, I'm long gone" she said.
and I smoked the rest of my lit cigarette as I watched her
walk passed the wall I had built around myself
and out the front door. she walked away
with the same sizzling stride the others did
and I'm left here with a beer, partially intact, happy with my secret pact
to never fall in love
with a blue-eyed blonde beauty
what if i were a blonde bombshell
would it be different if i changed
would it be a little better
could i be a pulse on your radar
a blip on the screen
a little bit of static flipping through the channels
or maybe just me
could i have a place in line
a moment of your time
would it be different if i changed?
patient yet forlorn on saint valentine's day
I came only to watch one person eyes open and peeled.
The Blonde Bombshell was her name and O, what power did she wield!
One look and the explosion of her beauty could soften any heart of steel.
I knew nothing of softball besides the name,
but the blonde pitcher inspired me to change my game.
As I watched she seemed nervous on the softball mound.
Her first few pitches practically never left the ground.
The game continued and she pitched better in each inning.
Each throw as beautiful as she was and secured her team in winning.
She looked more confident as she began to smile.
Sending each batter back to the bench crying like a child.
As I prepared to leave I waved my farewell.
To a blonde beauty who looked and pitched exceptionally and gracefully well.
My Blue Eyed Blonde
I’m just a man with a broken heart trying to show love
To the woman who I lost and is now in the heaven above
I think back when we met we shared a kiss
Now the days go by I think of my wife who I terribly miss
Life seems so very unfair
I was older but it’s my wife who is not here
All the years we were married I gave her all that I could
I gave her all my love and my heart the way a husband should
When special days and some holidays come near
It hurts more on these days that my wife and I no longer share
I wish I could remember everything from my past
I would burn my wife in my mind so it all would last
Over and over as the days go by
I try to get by with out a cry
Joey was my wife and now she is gone
I am finding my days so very hard to move on
On our wedding day some words I had said
I promised to always love her and with this ring I thee wed
We have two girls Barbara and Patricia are their names
Also their is our son his name is James
My wife was a tall and slender blonde with blue eyes
She loved me and I guess she was very wise
having decided that your duty is to bring music
and a little bit of danger to the lifeless streets
of suburbia, you draw yourself up as a rebel with a cause,
hold your arms out like the spirals of the milky way,
sending the glowing children congregating around you
into a feverish whirl, because space is curved
and so are the suburbs you traversed across to bring them here,
winding through hills and streets to conduct
this sermon on a mount, so even the things that
appear to move straight are really spinning around.
you have stolen your father’s turntable,
and his old records, and his oversized coat,
and while the sunset begins to stain things
in a golden light, you put the needle
on the vinyl and open old wounds
while the only voice you have ever loved
claws its way out of the box and into
the grooves of the sky, making the stars
scratch and whir, and time instead
settles into the beats, breaks its lineage,
and begins to, like everything, spin.
Dirty combat boots
Grey ripped jeans
Dark honey eyes
You got a tattoo?? That's so cool
Looking up to you
Listening to every word
Your girlfriend?? Oh… your girlfriend… well, kind of… you know how that goes...
I miss you
You… you do?
But… but you're a girl…
Can't tell mom.
soft brown eyes
like dark honey
what are you?
who are you?
what are you doing to me?
you do strange things to my head
I reach down
and brown eyed
hands moving faster
dirty combat boots
feel it building
waves through me
pushing into me
scream too loud
thank god no one's home
lying there for hours