"camaro" poems
Ben Kowalewicz (spoken): Hi, my name is Ben Kowalewicz and this is Billy Talent.
Well I tripped, I fell down naked
I drank from a cup of lead
I hugged a skunk, it peed on me
Yesterday I joined Scientology
Steal a Camaro, then **** Jack Sparrow
Try stupid **** try stupid ****
Jump in a dump truck, smell **** and get stuck
I cannot read, I cannot read
**** on computers, then drink some pewter
Die sanity, die sanity
Marry a cheapskate, gain ninety pounds weight
I'm really dumb, I'm really dumb
I'm stupid, it's my fault, so daft
I like to play in the garbage shaft
The best sport is Parkour, **** straight
I arrive at work five hours late
Drink a deep fryer, eat some barbed wire
Try stupid **** try stupid ****
Sleep in a fireplace, burn your entire face
I cannot read, I cannot read
Cinnamon challenge, go on a chalk binge
Die sanity, Die sanity
Bike into traffic, pose pornographic
I'm a ******* I'm a *******
I ate some poo!
I'm stupid, it's my fault
Try
I'm stupid, it's my fault
Lie
This bad song don't make sense
Pie
Get a Prince Albert, snake blood for dessert now?
Drink some Everclear, cut off your own ear now?
Go back in time to, forties as a Jew
Try stupid **** try stupid ****
Do *** and rip off your right knee
I cannot read, I cannot read
Find the KKK, put on some blackface
Die sanity, die sanity
Locate a pervert, then take off your shirt
I am a twit, I am a twit
I am a twit, I am a twit
Try stupid **** try stupid ****
I am a twit, I am a twit
May 27, 2012
May 27, 2012 at 6:15 PM UTC
i peeked into your secret
i unbottuned your sensitivity
with your own sarcasm
you blew my vietnam
my heart is a touchy speaker cable
and you sparked me up
now
i am empty beer bottles
oscillating in your hand
and then you set me down
i am your nostalgia and
you can only think of bad things
like bruised knees and gout
and that summer you
had walking pneumonia and syphilis
and you cried every night
into your mother's arms
i am the cancer you faked
in order to gain attention
i am that boy that fell for it
and gave you syphilis
i am your shaved head
on picture day in the 9th grade
i am your solitude
i am your noise
i am your virginity
being taken in the backseat of your
brother's best friend's parent's
camaro when you were 15
and more than willing
Nov 27, 2011
Nov 27, 2011 at 7:26 PM UTC
The rain drapes the windshield in sheets
and the radio doesn't reach any stations
cold integrity darkens the interior
of Alex's rusty crimson Camaro
it's never this quiet on the highway
sliding between light and lightning
laid bare by a flash across the sky
naked at the sound of thunder
what use is running away
if all you can do is drive.
Jul 22, 2018
Jul 22, 2018 at 11:16 PM UTC
When people hear time travel, they think fun.
Reliving moments in life that were filled with laughter and joy.
Like pounding back jagerbombs at the warehouse,
or leaving home and enjoying life on a resort.
When people hear time travel, they think atonement.
To go back and stop yourself from doing a loved one wrong,
or not making that left turn and crashing your camaro.
When people hear time travel, they think restoration.
A second chance if you will.
Like going back to school and studying harder,
or not making that last bet at the casino and losing all your cash.
When I hear time travel, I think of your lips.
Soft as a cloud and sweet as honey.
Your kiss had me surrendering my soul to you.
When I hear time travel, I think of your hands.
The most angelic touch, that could calm the angriest bull.
How it felt as if your fingers were made perfectly to fit into mine.
When I hear time travel, I think of your eyes.
A gateway to never ending happiness.
When we locked eyes, time would stop around us, leaving you and I in our own world.
When I hear time travel, I think of pain.
How you saying a couple words hurt more than a thousand shattered bones.
How you leaving felt as if someone punched me in the gut and left with every last bit of my breath.
When I hear time travel, I think yes.
Yes i'd endure all that again.
That crushing feeling as if you're 10,000 feet under the ocean.
Yes, if it meant I got to hold you again like a scared kid holding a teddy.
Yes, if it meant I got to witness how beautiful you look sipping on wine.
Your red lipstick staining the glass, and then my neck.
When I hear time travel, I think of you.
But just like time travel, our love doesn't exist.
For now.
Oct 15, 2018
Oct 15, 2018 at 4:01 PM UTC
Regardless of where my life is headed
No matter which wild path it is on
There are always voices that claw their way out
Sadness, Misery,Dripping desire, Torment, Gore...
Live inside of me
I have bubbles in my laughter
Sunshine sky ways in my smile
You'd never know from reading
That I could bake your pants off
Fix your camaro regardless it's issue
And clean your whole house all at the same time
Phone *** operator get you off with her voice kind of love
I make no apologies
Excuses don't dwell here
****** poet with a taste for flesh
An open book with banshee hair
The desire for more and more ink endless on my fingertips
May 23, 2012
May 23, 2012 at 12:17 AM UTC
it was suggested
that there be no nexus
between texas and your pal-
omino - tagging the alamo, **
en el barrio, yo(u)-
and your gringa homecoming
queen in tight-assed jeans
-running with ms-13?
-playing twister with your hipster
sisters misters smith & wesson
oiled up and and ready to go
- new mexico?
i found you in tres piedras
at a place called ortega's
eating huevos rancheros
- shooting jose cuervo?
-muthafucka mara salvatruchas
in a red camaro and two bruthas
on a burro with bow and arrows
-stole your palomino?
*-they shoot horses
don't they?*
riding the black el camino
-on the blue mesa.
r ~ 9/30/14
Sep 30, 2014
Sep 30, 2014 at 6:08 PM UTC
It's 10 pm and the heat just hit me
The AC is off but I couldn't be more happy
Touched my first palm tree and dipped my hand in the toilet
Grabbed a cab to the city, on the seat there was a death threat
For breakfast we had Bananas foster, po'boys and hash brown
When Amanda power walked I had to tell her to slow down
By the Mississipi river I drank a peach daquiri
The waitress wanted more tips and across the streets she chased me
Strippers gave me the finger, ****** begged for ******
We were stuck in traffic cause of the constant flash floods
In a Camaro and a Werewolf to creep with vampires and slaves
Talking about plantations by the old family graves
And you were so beautiful under that big oak tree
Even more in the rain outside that locked cemetery
On Bourbon street the homeboys were asking for hugs
And I gave away all my coins to some thugs
We ate jambalaya and fried green tomatoes
The ladies were halfnaked but no one called them hoes
In a blacksmith shop with no electricity
We drank Morgan and got wasted with some other swedes
Wherever we went we felt the smell of ****
From every balcony people were throwing beads
All the ***** sounds were drowned out by the air condition
On the floor Hoyt from True Blood was changing positions
Then Chris slept like a baby when the cockroach sang him lullabies
For some reason it made more sense than "bridge may ice"
Apr 6, 2016
Apr 6, 2016 at 1:27 AM UTC
watch you from far away
as the sun slinks beneath the trees
got some
bad luck
a bad body
a curse in love
like it follows me hopelessly like a ghost
wanting to join the living again
you wink at me from your camaro
like it means something
in your gucci flippy floppies
and i giggle like it means something
two strangers never to see each other again
autumn will inherit ohio soon
me promising i won't be scared
of having air as the infill of my arms
and time is a stream with purposeful arrows
who am i to be your burden
Aug 6, 2018
Aug 6, 2018 at 4:22 AM UTC
It's 10 pm and the heat just hit me
The AC is off but I couldn't be more happy
Touched my first palm tree and dipped my hand in the toilet
Grabbed a cab to the city, on the seat there was a death threat
For breakfast we had Bananas foster, po'boys and hash brown
When Amanda power walked I had to tell her to slow down
By the Mississipi river I drank a peach daquiri
The waitress wanted more tips and across the streets she chased me
Strippers gave me the finger, ****** begged for ******
We were stuck in traffic cause of the constant flash floods
In a Camaro and a Werewolf to creep with vampires and slaves
Talking about plantations by the old family graves
And you were so beautiful under that big oak tree
Even more in the rain outside that locked cemetery
On Bourbon street the homeboys were asking for hugs
And I gave away all my coins to some thugs
We ate jambalaya and fried green tomatoes
The ladies were halfnaked but no one called them hoes
In a blacksmith shop with no electricity
We drank Morgan and got wasted with some other swedes
Wherever we went we felt the smell of ****
From every balcony people were throwing beads
All the ***** sounds were drowned out by the air condition
On the floor Hoyt from True Blood was changing positions
Then Chris slept like a baby when the cockroach sang him lullabies
For some reason it made more sense than "bridge may ice"
Dec 10, 2016
Dec 10, 2016 at 8:15 AM UTC
When a wig maker saw my wife's hair, he adored it.
He wanted it and said that he'd pay top dollar for it.
So I cut my wife's hair off while she was asleep.
She walked out the door after calling me a creep.
Perhaps I did go too far.
But I wanted to buy a car.
I went to a used car lot and bought a beautiful red Camaro.
If you're wondering if I got away with it, the answer is no.
My wife went home to be with her mother.
And then I got a visit from her two brothers.
One came at me with an axe, I was lucky that my head wasn't severed.
The other torched my Camaro and covered me with tar and feathers.
It took four weeks to get that tar out of my hair and off my skin.
If I live to be a hundred, I'll never cut off a woman's hair again.
Apr 26, 2015
Apr 26, 2015 at 7:38 PM UTC
Beauty is only skin deep,
your beauty is not based upon
what you drive weather it
be a Camaro or a Jeep.
Beauty is based upon
who you are as an individual.
You may be a pushover, a nice
person or a straight up tool.
Beauty does not determine your
self worth. Remember you're not
the only being of this earth.
Beauty is not just your face,
beauty is your morals,
your value, or your grades, it doesn't
matter. Not everyone is an ace.
Your time to shine will come.
Apr 29, 2013
Apr 29, 2013 at 10:59 PM UTC
I see them still,
From time to time,
Their goofy smiles,
Their laughing eyes.
Still hear their *******
Their growled complaints,
Their farts in the night,
from five bunks down.
The relentless joke telling,
The brotherly jabs.
Still see their sad empty eyes
When no mail from home arrives.
Oh and the lists of things
That they would do,
When back they'd go,
Into the World,
Added to daily, always growing.
Get that new Camaro,
"Set them tires on fire!",
Cruse the strip back home
and pick up chicks.
Put on their Class A,
And strut down the block.
Find that foxy girl from English class,
And make her his wife.
Tell his old man,
to actually **** Off!"
We were but boys,
Too eager and green,
Posturing and playing at being men.
What I wonder, would they have become,
Given the chance to grow to a man?
Young lives cut short by ballistic pain.
So now still they linger, boys they remain,
Night visions left in the mud and the rain.
Nov 11, 2014
Nov 11, 2014 at 11:04 AM UTC
like the
Rialto, the Grand Canal flows underneath me.
Even as I hold my back
in my hands, I can no longer support my discretions.
Sixteen.
Twenty-one.
Thirty-three.
How
did I have the space?
You would think it would be engraved across my pelvis:
“wrap it up”
before you
hold me down
I ran with lit matches as a girl,
waiting until the flame kissed my thumb and forefingers
puckered pink under the surface.
I enjoy the boils left
behind by my recklessness:
every bruise from a fence **** and
every pebble-sized bump from my head
hitting the roof of a Camaro
sat underneath my skin,
just like Lil’ A
B
C
and I can lie flat
as the canal rushes over.
Sep 16, 2015
Sep 16, 2015 at 5:09 PM UTC
Sitting at the piano
Useless because I am deaf anyway
As a baby one too many insults were thrown my way
Hit a key
Vibrate through my arm like the rev of a Mustang engine
Poking needles into my brain saying listen
I try and try
But nothing is heard because I am deaf
I cry
My tears soaking the keys like a saltwater and vinegar bath
Acidic and all sodium
But then the piano sings to me
And cleans away the cobwebs in my ears
So I hear
And I listen to the vibrations that sound like
The purr of a Camaro
As well as the hum of a harp
Such a beautiful combination for a girl that
Can't hear
Jul 13, 2013
Jul 13, 2013 at 3:06 PM UTC
You told me that you would be there for me, were you?
No.
You told me that if I went blind then you would be the one to lead me, were you?
No
You told me that if I cried that you would slap me,did you?
Yes.
You told me that if I died for you that you would continue to live happily, did you?
Yes.
You told me that all things are meant to be,
You told me that if one door closes then you would just open it again,
You told me ..
"Yes, I love you with all my heart."
You told me that you would be loyal, and I that I should trust you.
You told me that we are soulmates and that meant I was supposed to be in chains to serve your sorry ***
You told me to never leave the house because you would bring the wedding papers to me.
You told me that we could have that sweet apple red 2010 Camaro with white racing stripes down the middle.
You told me that we could have my dream penthouse and your dream pool.
You told me that you would sell all of your **** magazines.
Wanna know what I told you?
No.
I told you, when you finally let your guard down,
That I didn't want for you to be there for me,
I didn't want you to be the one leading me when I went blind.
I didn't want you to be the one to slap me to get me to stop crying.
I didn't want you to continue living happily when I died, I told you I wanted to be the one living happily when you died.
I didn't want all things to be inevitable.
I didn't want you to be the one opening up the same door over and over again, I wanted that to be me, just with a different door.
I told you,
"No, don't say that, I want you to hate me."
I didn't want you to be loyal, I knew I would never trust you.
I didn't want us to be soulmates so I can be the one that you had *** with in the basement after poker nights.
I wanted to leave the house and runaway not have a permanent pigment change on my finger where your rusty ring was.
I wanted to drive that car by myself, but now that you got it and sat your *** in it, I don't want another Camaro.
I wanted that penthouse to be mine, not ours, I'm afraid of water, why would I want a pool?
I wanted you to keep those **** magazines so I could runaway and tell the police about what you've done to those poor models.
Every time...
I should have told you
No...
But every time...
A yes was what formed....
No..
Not anymore...
No.
Jun 29, 2012
Jun 29, 2012 at 10:57 PM UTC
'A Story with an (im)Moral'
Once there was a boy
desperate to make some grand escape
not exactly sure what from
but determined by desperation nonetheless
he found his solution of choice to be running away,
in the elementary, running away from home sense
not to be confused with the running
of the 'Forrest Gump' specialty
so away he went
across all the boundaries he could find
city, state, nation, ocean
he crossed and crisscrossed them all
until the places he ended up running away from
brought him right back to the place
he thought he'd never return to again
normally at this juncture
he would meet up with a forgotten sweetheart
realize he'd only been running from himself
and settle quickly into a story book situation
of paper bliss and paste-flavored life
however, he had always been more
of an anti-hero kind of guy
so after a quick fling with that sweetheart
who, matter-of-factly, he had never even started to forget
he left her sobbing in a corner
over the should-have-been he robbed away from her
and proceeded to absolutely decimate
every tie he had left in that town
he had always doubted that saying about burning bridges
so he perpetrated a final crime as a lasting reminder
that he had told the whole town
to go **** themselves, in no uncertain terms
-and by **** he meant it-
he burned the only bridge out of town
along with an ex-buddy from high school's
pristine Camaro that turned out to be
just the ignition that bridge needed
it would be stock to tell you
that he learned some grand life lesson
and felt great remorse for his evil ways
no such scripted end, though
as he grinned into the wreckage
smoking in the stream at the bottom of the gulch
he was struck by a happy revelation
staying away is so much easier
when you physically can’t go back
and his only parting thought
was of how much time could have been saved
if he'd only burned that stupid bridge
the first time he left.
Feb 13, 2010
Feb 13, 2010 at 6:36 PM UTC
The floor is piled with tattered,
age washed images.
These faces breathe again after years behind the glass.
I never knew he went there, did that,
met her, and a subdued laughter joins the somber air.
My first memories of you are like these dusty pictures.
I remember my tall, wind blown,
cowboy uncle from Texas.
You had to be a 1980’s cigarette poster in my 4 year old mind, there in my Colorado world all the way from
the home state that I knew nothing of.
We rode a train; you bought me stuffed animals,
your mustache reminded me of
a bristly broom,
and I stared at your
cowboy boots of legend
as you and my father talked
leather and Cadillacs.
I see a little of myself in your faded eyes looking back.
I wonder which of these you look like now.
What are those eyes beholding now?
We have only
a feeble grasp of time.
I refill my whiskey glass.
I play the slide show again.
I smoke a cigar much to my wife’s dismay.
I cry, I laugh, I remember.
Playing Battleship with you,
When you gave it to me one Christmas, until you were sick of it.
My first real bottle of cologne,
your museum of a house with a real suit of armor,
eating hot salsa to impress you,
petting the dolphins at Sea World,
you teaching me to draw , my high school graduation
my wedding, and I remember…
Not wanting to see you suffer while holding your hand.
You were happy to see me even though it hurt you to talk.
I am not writing you this for closure or maybe I am.
Funny the way we lie to ourselves.
I am writing to remember.
Because I need the words to go with
the pictures,
I need to know where your were,
was it Morocco, Istanbul, Rome,
The Caribbean, Korea,
Germany, San Antonio? What year was this? When did you have a Camaro?
Who was she? Did you really get a date with Doris Day?
You left me with too many questions, so I need the words to remember,
for the sake of memory.
May 29, 2015
May 29, 2015 at 10:12 AM UTC
She loved to have fun
The hot 'Party Girl"
With a sparkle in her eye and a smile on her face
No one on earth could keep up with her pace
Where is she going,
it'll be a surprise
You can see the mischief in her eyes
Let's do up the town, the city too!
When she's finished with that, she'll find a new place to do!
The world is all hers and she knew it too well
Come and party, burn in hell...
The red camaro is ready to cruise
Don't forget the white stuff, and the bottles of *****
Speeding down the highway
let the party begin
Start passing around that tonic and gin
Keep the party rockin, if you dare
She gulped from the bottle without a care
The road started winding, but she didn't slow down
She's anxious and ready to burn up this town
Where'd the truck come from?
A load crashing sound
The camaro flew through the air, till it hit the ground
There was nothing left of the tiny sports car
It burst into flames
Her body floated high up towards the stars
All she wanted was to have some fun
The party was over, before it begun
Nov 18, 2014
Nov 18, 2014 at 6:42 PM UTC
I see them still,
From time to time,
Their goofy smiles,
Their laughing eyes.
Still hear their *******
Their growled complaints,
Their farts in the night,
from five bunks down.
The relentless joke telling,
The brotherly jabs.
Still see their sad empty eyes
When no mail from home arrives.
Oh and the lists of things
That they would do,
When back they'd go,
Into the World,
Added to daily, always growing.
Get that new Camaro,
"Set them tires on fire!",
Cruse the strip back home
and pick up chicks.
Put on their Class A,
And strut down the block.
Find that foxy girl from English class,
And make her his wife.
Tell his old man,
to actually **** Off!"
We were but boys,
Too eager and green,
Posturing and playing at being men.
What I wonder, would they have become,
Given the chance to grow to a man?
Young lives cut short by ballistic pain.
So now still they linger, boys they remain,
Night visions left in the mud and the rain.
Aug 14, 2014
Aug 14, 2014 at 12:01 PM UTC
Night Vision
I see them still,
From time to time,
Their goofy smiles,
Their laughing eyes.
Still hear their *******
Their growled complaints,
Their farts in the night,
from five bunks down.
The relentless joke telling,
The brotherly jabs.
Still see their sad empty eyes
When no mail from home arrived.
Oh and the lists of things
That they would do,
When back they'd go,
Into the World,
Added to daily, always growing.
"Get that new Camaro,
Set them tires on fire!",
"Cruise the strip back home
and pick up chicks."
"Put on my blue Class A,
And strut down the block for all to see."
"Find that foxy girl from English class,
and make her my wife".
"I'd tell my mean old man,
to actually **** Off!"
"I'd find that bully from back in school,
and teach that fool a thing or two."
We were but boys,
Too eager and green,
Posturing and playing at being men.
What I wonder, would they have become,
Given the chance to grow to a man?
Young lives cut short by ballistic pain.
So now still they linger, boys they remain,
Night visions left in the mud and the rain.
May 28, 2016
May 28, 2016 at 8:50 PM UTC
They'd been friends for months... Meeting in a thunderstorm... Together days and nights before... From under chandeliers to dark club corner booths... Movies, music, cruising around town at night in the Camaro... Drunken dancing on the porch at 3;00am.... Beachcombing on hot summer days.. Deep conversations... Talk and yearnings for transition, pain, fear, anticipation of the unknown dreams that have haunted her whole life, that only he understands... Hangovers weathered on the couch... Late for work mornings after too much wine.. Feeling full of smiles that night, wine, lots of talk, deep talk interrupted only by moments of silence and thought.. Old music on the radio... It's snowing hard and long, blowing the leafless branches against the house.... Sounds of ghosts outside, transparent nails ***** scratching, with every gust... Wanting, needing, desiring to be let in... They both felt it.. Lonely quivers against the cold leather sofa.. The snow blows harder outside... The house trembles.. The lights go out with a loud crackling pop in the fuse box... They jump, and fall closer together on the couch.. Laughter erupts, as the wine absorbs all fear... Memories of summers moments. The sun on their backs turn to cold flashing shadows from blowing branches.. Sounds get louder, eyes widen... He rests his hand on hers, needing comfort... She trembles... Genders collide then disappear in the darkness... He touches her for the first time as the woman she's always longed to be.. They kiss and melt almost in tears... A transformer explodes on a pole outside... No attention is paid... Their hearts and bodies are consumed by love, nothing else matters, the whole world stops and takes a deep breath.. They touch, sensing things so new, so natural and familiar. Excitement and pulses that can not be imagined or explained... Sharing things neither had even knew existed before.. A love so special, so deep, so unique that they sink beneath the silk bed sheets, and disappear completely... Snow stops falling, wind stops blowing, they are both now blind, both deep in love, and both happier than they ever dreamed they could be...
by Lj Mark, 3-24-15
Apr 15, 2015
Apr 15, 2015 at 3:03 AM UTC
I thought you were my honey
but you were in for the money
I sent you to those classes
I bought your ugly glasses
I gave you that Camaro
You shot me with an arrow
I met your Kin
You broke my chin
I asked you why
you punched my eye
I gave you love
You gave a shove
I did your clothes
You broke my nose
I changed your sheets
you walked the streets
I walked your dog
You called me hog
I rubbed your feet
You ate my meat
I did your dishes
you mocked my wishes
You loved me not
You sold my cot
I did so care
You left me bare
You were in for the money
Weren't you, honey?
Nov 26, 2010
Nov 26, 2010 at 1:15 PM UTC
It was one of those black,
crystalline
winter mornings.
There was no moon
or
stars that could be seen.
The coastal storms
had harried our
Midwestern weather pattern,
dosed us with perhaps,
a little more winter
than we’d previously
been ready for.
Out the door,
on the street,
just before five o’clock
in the morning.
The air is not still,
but doesn’t have much movement to it.
This breeze has teeth though,
they bite hard enough
that everything in me
says that it might be a good idea to stop,
turn around,
get back under the covers,
hideout for a few more hours.
But, I’m already out here.
I’ve chosen the Phillips 66 sign
as my adopted moon,
letting it guide my steps.
I pass by that mechanic’s yard.
The yellow IROC Z-28 stares at me
with her dim headlights,
reflecting the light of that
‘not-a-moon’ moon
we’d both elected to go in for.
“I used to go fast”, she says.
“Me too”, I say and keep walking.
There was a time that I wanted that car
like I’d wanted women I had known
during years and versions of myself
long gone.
Really though,
I don’t know what I would have done
with those yellow fishtailing hips,
those screaming tires,
that black vinyl-wrapped steering wheel.
Yeah,
that car was very much like
those long-lost lusted for women,
in that I’d have been flummoxed
as to what to do with them after a while.
There are only so many
red lights to run,
so many hairpin turns to take,
holding that yolk for dear life.
There are only so many mindless rolls in the sack,
only so many beers with bourbon sidecars.
I keep walking.
That yellow Camaro winks at me
a few more times
under the light of that gas-station moon.
I keep walking.
Nowadays we’d both make
that same quarter-mile run
to the Phillips 66
in the same amount of time.
However,
she’s all caged up
in that chain-link lot.
I’m not.
I’m free.
I’m cold,
but where I’ll end up,
I’ll fill up on biscuits and gravy,
sit in a warm booth,
hope that someone
has already left a morning paper behind,
and stare into the inky, starless pre-dawn sky.
Likely becoming
hopelessly infatuated with my
adopted moon.
***
-JBClaywell
© P&ZPublications
Dec 29, 2018
Dec 29, 2018 at 8:36 PM UTC
Day falls and with it the temperature.
You walk quietly through the night,
As you do through the world.
The cold pierces with agonizing blades of glass.
Where is shelter?
You thirst and hunger for more than knowledge.
Your body is weak.
Your mind is weaker.
Where is love?
My soul reaches out a hand to lift you up from the cold concrete.
You take my hand.
You take my shelter.
You take my love.
As best you can without clarity.
A bitten hand.
A shelter destroyed.
An already broken heart.
Every negative word they told me,
piercing at my very soul like a dagger that cuts through the heart. muscle surrounded by the dagger does not bleed until removed.
Once removed, that heart will bleed out and the victim, will die.
I do not bleed from the heart, only from the eyes.
A single warm tear falls upon where my heart once was.
An Ashen Gray Camaro drives away into the night.
One driver, no passenger.
Feb 14, 2016
Feb 14, 2016 at 1:00 AM UTC