"dashboard" poems
The way the sun filters
through the window,
switching over the dashboard
as we change directions.
Creating freckles on your skin.
The way it makes your hair glint
red,
spreading out to flicker in your
eyes.
Jul 4, 2014
Jul 4, 2014 at 7:36 PM UTC
I have been going to the track for so
long that
all the employees know
me,
and now with winter here
it's dark before the last
race.
as I walk to the parking lot
the valet recognizes my
slouching gait
and before I reach him
my car is waiting for me,
lights on, engine warm.
the other patrons
(still waiting)
ask,
"who the hell is that
guy?"
I slip the valet a
tip, the size depending upon the
luck of the
day (and my luck has been amazingly
good lately)
and I then am in the machine and out on
the street
as the horses break
from the gate.
I drive east down Century Blvd.
turning on the radio to get the result of that
last race.
at first the announcer is concerned only with
bad weather and poor freeway
conditions.
we are old friends: I have listened to his
voice for decades but,
of course, the time will finally come
when neither one of us will need to
clip our toenails or
heed the complaints of our
women any longer.
meanwhile, there is a certain rhythm
to the essentials that now need
attending to.
I light my cigarette
check the dashboard
adjust the seat and
weave between a Volks and a Fiat.
as flecks of rain spatter the
windshield
I decide not to die just
yet:
this good life just smells too
sweet.
9k
I want something other than ****
with the short shorts showing
everything
the low-cut crop top
exploring eyes wander over
on countless evenings
my imagination having nothing
left
I want smokey flannel
a two-day-old pony tail
boots stained by the dirt and grass
a hole in your jeans
that wasn't there when you found them
I want hungover-fastfood-drive-throughs
with my shorts and your tank top
wrinkled from your floor
your hair still wet from the morning shower
I want leggings, a t-shirt
and a backwards ball cap
while we sing loudly out the open window
tapping the dashboard off-beat
hand raised fingers pointing at the moon
laughing at the man that sits watching us drive
Nov 3, 2015
Nov 3, 2015 at 5:11 PM UTC
if i could measure myself by your terms,
i would become that feeble pile of gray dust
you sweep under your rug,
or blow off of the dashboard of your shiny blue car.
i could be that lonely scuff mark on your shiny white shoes,
new and barely broken in.
new and barely broken in, like that heart
perfectly beating in your perfectly toned chest.
when did it become so easy
to trim my value into useless puzzle pieces
trying tirelessly but aimlessly
to fit into those tiny awkward spaces we create.
i spent the last few years of my life,
attempting to escape comfort, fearful
of it's promise--like loathing the end of the night,
i have run fast into the moonlight,
hid beneath my covers, shaking, screaming
JUST ONE MORE HOUR.
it can not be over.
you can not be leaving me now,
can you?
while i am swelling up with tears,
and need to be felt, so deeply now
beneath your skin? i pick and scratch
at your freckles, but you are cute and made
of wrought-iron dimpled blonde steel,
and i, too weak, too worthless,
too useless, to bend you into
pretty loving shapes.
how can i fear the end now, that is it finally
seemingly eternally here. where do we go
now? how can i rest, abandoned, leaking
words, dripping
thoughts into a bucket that,
at any moment
can
spill.
this is goodbye.
Jul 31, 2012
Jul 31, 2012 at 6:44 PM UTC
In childhood, your father’s name is DAD
Now grown, maybe with children of your own
But his name is still DAD
DAD, the teacher, the consoler, the advisor
Admonishes: “Drive safe” and “Save your Money”
Today he’s the bard
“This is like prison,” DAD laments while rolling his eyes
Tubes like thin plastic chains tether his deflated body
to blinking panels; paintings (factory printed ones)
pretend the hospital room is more than just a sterile space
Today, DAD’s eyes cast a faraway gaze, projecting
And I see the characters in his story
I see the 10 year old boy he describes, who snuck to stash a set
Of English Composition Texts in the boy’s bathroom
To escape Mrs. McElroy’s Fourth Grade course in Morose Poetry
I see the thin, sandy blond, 6 foot 2 high school rabblerouser
Who broke into the Vice Principal’s old Fiat
And buried Stilton cheese in the dashboard
All done on a sweltering May school day
The anecdote is punctuated with a smirk and a: “Who would do a thing like that?”
Stories of when he spotted a shy brunette at the dance and knew
Knew he was to marry her;
Stories of when his own DAD grasped his infant grandson’s dimpled hand
Before giving in to complications of a heart attack
The bard stops and exhales a sigh
He cringes in his crinkled skin
Sunken eyes squeeze close “I’m sorry”
the nausea interrupts his tale “These drugs are…”
“It’s okay. Take your time” I console, trying to comfort the pain in the room
Now I’m the consoler, taking on the job to ameliorate
Now this man, vulnerable in his suffering, is no longer DAD
Now mortal, a child, a brother, a lover, a patient
A man chained by the body’s sickness
He is distilled by chemo
reduced to a soul, who, through affliction,
Forgets
As his children remember
He is as helpless in this life as we are.
Jun 17, 2016
Jun 17, 2016 at 12:38 AM UTC
Long nights,
Party lights,
Way to get it started.
Blurred sight,
Drinks taste alright,
Away the car parted.
Deer in the headlights,
Swerve to the right,
Many trees uncharted.
Prayers recite,
Skull and dashboard unite,
There his soul departed.
Sep 6, 2014
Sep 6, 2014 at 8:17 PM UTC
Speaking of how
these Ladies of the Night
must hate Daylight Savings Time
since the sun doesn’t set until nine, and
the cloying summer scent of honeysuckle
drowns the smell of their knock-off Gucci Guilty.
Except there’s that one A.M. Pro
who works the whole stretch in front of
The Towing and Recovery Museum
from 7 something till lunch.
She’s tried to keep a low profile, but
is hoping to meet that one lonesome soul
who needs to get blown
at ten o’clock in the ******* morning.
Sometimes I wave at her when I drive by,
wishing her the best,
whatever that may look like...
The fasten seatbelt warning light is flashing on my dashboard but
I’m buckled in, rest assured.
That’s probably important, but
it’s like what Don Q whispered to Sancho through the Spanish gloom:
“I need you.”
Feb 12, 2016
Feb 12, 2016 at 2:29 PM UTC
*You deserve flowers on your doorstep
And coffee in the morning
You deserve notes left on your dashboard
And ice cream sundaes at 3 AM
You deserve honesty everyday
And to be kissed every hour
You need to be reminded
Just how beautiful you truly are*
Feb 9, 2015
Feb 9, 2015 at 10:04 PM UTC
I
I stole my brother’s car and drove to Phoenix in the dark.
The blue-green glow of dashboard gauges, the biting scent
of roadkill and desert marigolds. Tap. Tap. Tap.
Insects slapping the windshield, incipient rain.
Keep driving. Drive until the sun blooms.
II
Some days were more dire than others. CCTV footage confirms
I pawned a shotgun, a Gibson guitar, and my wife’s engagement
ring at the pawnshop next to Fatty’s Tattoo parlor on MLK Boulevard.
The typographically accurate Declaration of Independence
inscribed on my back also confirms this.
III
I ran the tilt-a-whirl at the Ashtabula county fair,
fattening up on fried Oreos and elephant ears,
twisting behind tent ***** with a one-armed
contortionist with strawberry-blonde hair.
IV
I derailed in a dive bar.
V
I disappeared in a city lit by lavender streetlights,
where buildings blotted out the stars and the traffic
signals kept perfect time. I picked through trash bins.
I paid for love with drugstore wine.
VI
I closed my eyes on a mountain road.
The sheriff extracted me from a ****** snowbank.
VII
I holed up for weeks in an oceanfront motel, dazed
by the roar of the breakers. Each morning I drew
back the curtains and lost myself
in the crisscrossing patterns of whitecaps,
the synchronous flight of sanderlings above the dunes.
I dreamed of dead horseshoe ***** rolling in with the tide.
VIII
The moon over my shoulder
tightened into focus like a spotlight.
One night the barking dogs undid me.
I caved in to the candor of a naked mattress.
I grew my beard, an insomniac in a jail cell,
clinging to bars the color of a morning dove.
IX
I coveted the house keys of strangers.
X
I opened and closed many doors.
I sang into the mouths of storm drains.
I stepped out of many rooms only
to find myself in the room I just left.
Despite all my leaving, I remained.
Sep 21, 2018
Sep 21, 2018 at 1:45 PM UTC
I set my cruise on the highway and
am passed by a red AMC Eagle.
This red rusty AMC Eagle has a
wind shied covered in frost because,
I'm guessing, the defrost motor burned
up in a bakelite mushroom cloud from the
dashboard.
It is held together with duct tape
and grit. The pilot sits behind his cardboard
console ludicrously warm in winter parka,
scarf,
hat
and gloves.
I pass him waving dressed
in my tshirt and shorts.
Driving in my new, awesomely
economical car.
Four dashboard vents dump lava warm air
to keep me pleasingly toasty.
The pilot will never understand that I wave
not at his expense, but in envy. The billboard
on my right says it all,
If I have to explain you wouldn't understand.
Jun 4, 2013
Jun 4, 2013 at 3:54 PM UTC
I thought I could do it.
You picked me up in the same car we made so many memories in this summer.
The same car that creaks when you shut the door.
The same car that seats are too low and I have to strain my neck to see over the dashboard.
The same car I decided I was in love with you in.
It was bittersweet.
I thought i'd be okay.
I thought it'd be easy.
We were supposed to sit in awkward silence
and turn up the radio until we got to her house and I could break from the tension.
But instead you were charming and you made cackle.
And you got behind the wheel and drove like you owned the road.
The wind howled through the open windows and I was in the most blissful state of mind.
I never told you how much I loved to just watch you drive.
I could sit for hours in that very passenger seat and just watch the road disappear under the tires.
You got out of the car and walked into the gas station and the first thing I thought to myself was
**** **** **** **** **** ****
That familiar feeling in my heart began to sweep over my soul and course through my veins.
I breathed in the scent of gasoline and cinnamon.
I glided my fingers across the soft leather of the steering wheel and sat back and thought of how
I fit so perfectly in that seat.
Like it was made for me.
Like you were made for me.
You glided effortlessly into the car and cranked the engine.
It roared to life
and chills danced up my spine.
I couldn't face you.
I couldn't look in your eyes.
Because I knew if I did I would be hooked again.
I knew your deep brown eyes would seep into me and cause me to shiver.
So I stared out the window and watched the world pass me by.
Mindless small talk kept me busy from thinking about how incredibly not over you I was.
I'm incredibly not over you.
I miss you.
And that car.
And the sweat spots on our backs from the sun and the leather.
It was bitter sweet.
And as soon as you dropped me off my breathing returned to normal
and the feeling in my finger tips came back.
As I watched your taillights fade into the distance I ****** in the cold night air,
and turned to the sky, hoping to fill the void in my stomach with the stars.
As much as I hate to admit,
I'm yours.
I'm still yours.
I'm still incredibly yours.
Jan 25, 2013
Jan 25, 2013 at 12:27 AM UTC
Wishing you all my readers a very promising new year 2014 filled with all kinds of nice things.
you deserve kept promises
and tea in the morning
you deserve love notes on your dashboard
and sausages for breakfast
you deserve love every day
and to be kissed every hour
you deserve to be reminded
how wonderful you are
Dec 9, 2013
Dec 9, 2013 at 12:20 PM UTC
*Ever look to the night sky beyond tiring windscreen wipers?
They screech, exasperated by an army of droplets hurtling downwards.
Ever lean on the dashboard gazing upwards into the downpour?
Constant and linear; like how stars zoom past spaceships in old movies.
A whole universe of dazzling stars.
That's how she lived; her aura a universe peppered with light.
Light forever radiating towards captivated eyes.
Oh, she loved with a love unparalleled.*
Jul 20, 2015
Jul 20, 2015 at 7:50 AM UTC
My bedsheets envelop me
with the familiar scent of home
as I lie comforted
in their warm embrace.
Outside my window,
crows call from maple trees
their leaves tipped in gold and ochre,
while raven visitors welcome me.
Sprinkled with bits of bleached sand,
my dashboard is a daily reminder
of my my beach-time walkabouts
where I kept my hopes and dreams.
My tropical adventure,
now just a memory in snapshots
lies packed away with shells and other mementos,
as I embrace tomorrow.
Summer's sultry days
with their myriad of challenges,
have molded me into the woman I am,
and who I will become.
Sep 4, 2018
Sep 4, 2018 at 9:04 PM UTC
stillness;
my petite fingers loosely grip the black leather
of the steering wheel,
melodies erupting sweetly from the dashboard,
their lyrics infiltrating my thoughts.
line by line, word by word,
they all take me to the same place.
my eyes search the sky on the long drive home.
the sky is a canvas
filled with an artistic blend
of magenta, red-orange, and gold,
as the sun slips quietly behind the clouds
& into slumber...
this same piece of art reveals itself
a long 6 hours away,
sneaking into darkness
above the quiet place where my music takes me;
to the place where my heart lives
for four solid months,
four months of sunrises & sunsets
where you stay
6 hours away.
yet, across those 300 miles
a single melody singing in my dashboard
can erase the vast, empty space;
in my stillness, I feel your presence.
time & distance are drowned out
in soothing sounds of rhythm & blues
& explosive colors in the sky.
all that I really see as I gaze upward
day in & day out
on my long drive home
is a pair of brown eyes
& long lashes,
holding me tight with their gaze...
"What distance?" they whisper,
"*I'm always right here,
watching this same setting sun*."
Apr 19, 2014
Apr 19, 2014 at 8:13 PM UTC
He had a bright yellow one, as yellow as a highlighter
I see them now and then on the highway and they stand out
like an important concept in a textbook, something to be taken note of
I rode in it once, and it was so clean, I felt like I could eat off the dashboard
and the doors were attached with the regular bolts and backpack shoulder strap material
which I have never figured out
and he looked even shorter, sinking into the seat, his longer legs stretched to the pedals
and his torso foreshortened and far away
and it was bouncy, and I was sure he could see my fat shake but I think that was the last thing on his mind.
We had dinner with another teacher, and his burrito arrived on his plate, and I felt like
I ate the inside of my taco salad and drank my beer and a few seconds passed and his plate
was empty and his eyes never seemed to leave me, not in a pleasant, admiring way
but with concern and fear, and attraction
and he finally burst forth in a flurry of worry about what would happen to the taco shell
would I eat it? take it? I should have offered it to him, but I can honestly say I've
never heard anyone so upset over a taco salad shell, and the waitress took it away
and I looked at him gently through my beer fog and he seemed to be pouting and squirming inside
On the way back he told me we had no future
At forty one the longest relationship he had had lasted three months
and clearly this one wouldn't work and I remember being confused
because I wasn't aware I had ever brought up a lasting bond
but it's true, I wanted his attention, his acceptance,
I felt so down, even losing a job I hated
and besides, he would leave all summer and not talk to anyone except his buddies
and those he met on the road
He was wiping the slate clean
I never liked him, only craved his attention and didn't enjoy it when
I rarely got it, and on my last day, which I worked hard to make happen
a little earlier than normal
I ran to him and hugged him and kissed his cheek
and it was not a high cheek bone and I cold feel five o'clock shadow,
and the wrinkles on his neck, his neck like a turtle's
and I begged him not to forget me, in a strange rush of madness
and he let out a cry of joy with the kiss
and said he wouldn't forget me, I was in his phone
It was like in Hebrew, where you say someone is "in" the phone, not "on" the phone
and I dreamt about going back to Israel that night, but not of him
He is somewhere with his buddies, in a bright red jeep
and I never really liked him
and can't this be the last time
I pursue and obsess over a man I don't even like
Jun 6, 2013
Jun 6, 2013 at 10:40 PM UTC
The four wheels that carry my family
Into the path of the moon.
We're away on a hairline breeze, he says
Dashboard shoulders jumping
With every bump on the road.
The earth is never far enough for him
Sea shoes well worn from perpetual wading
Sand in the sun lines of his eyes.
I hurtle Father.
Fists, teeth; I have forgotten the art of talking
Too wrapped up in the headlights growling,
Swearing apart confidently.
All my smiles like a train waiting.
Never fear Daughter.
Those are fireflies that wind their way
above the speedometer
And we'll make a space prophet of you yet.
Nov 23, 2013
Nov 23, 2013 at 7:52 AM UTC
(Preta प्रेत (Sanskrit) or Peta (Pāli) is the name for a type of (arguably supernatural) being described in Buddhist, Hindu, Sikh, and Jain texts that undergoes more than human suffering, particularly an extreme degree of hunger and thirst. They are often translated into English as “hungry ghosts”, from the Chinese, which in turn is derived from later Indian sources generally followed in Mahayana Buddhism.)
The series of blurs that was summer 2006 makes me wonder what kind of evils we committed in past lives. What otherworldly desires plagued us with this need to feed upon the surging tidal wave of young blood? The days from May 16th to August 23rd were black mirror images, indiscernible. I kept the 1997 Honda Accord running, tapping my fingers to the beats of Built to Spill on the dashboard, waiting for you outside your father’s newly constructed home on ice. You would bleed forth, blue sun light reflecting off windows to face like an eight point filter. What we did with the day mattered not. It was as important to us as the script of action flicks. We were the only people that we wanted to know and we were the places that we wanted to go. The day lived and died, as the nighttime was when our karma sprung curse would take us. Turn off blurred screens, ignore details of the war, pull the hatch shaded curtains tight. We shared a bed in which we did not sleep, bodies silent, blaring alarms. The same hungry ghosts feeding and choking on ash all night. We burned out, successful slow turns into frail husks. It was then that we couldn’t get full anymore, we realized that we fit like clothes made out of wasps. It hasn’t gotten better for either, a ghoul roaming in the night, hunting for the next lay like a record skipping. We will asphyxiate on stones or have our throats burned by water. Hopefully we’ve suffered enough to respawn into more advanced forms. I hope I see you in the next life as anything else.
Oct 14, 2012
Oct 14, 2012 at 7:16 PM UTC
A mad ride,landslide always surfing,never reaching, never beaching on the shoreline,
waves and cosines and the sum of my times are strewn across the ocean floor,rising,falling always calling me on and on,
summer's gone the storms are here,three cheers for winter, splintering the dashboard of the sky,looking reverse as I stop to converse with back to back and Jack, the frosty chap,doffs his cap at me ,then freezes up the sea,my home.
Foam and latte are the order of the day,the words are set,I'll get the tab you get the cab and let's go somewhere for a mad ride,landslide..
and so it carries on.
Oct 9, 2013
Oct 9, 2013 at 11:44 PM UTC
somewhere between the
first date and the last date
Joni Mitchell,
she, me
encapsulates
I'm remembering well,
pounding the dashboard of a red Jag,
laughable now, mocking this fool's need
for a middle age conceit,
his heart to restart,
reactivate
in enthusiastic lockstep with the voice of the
Joni, the blonde goddess of his youth,
foot falling in love, with the accelerator,
speeding along
at a
joyous sixty five,
in places where the signs said,
"thirty five to stay alive"
this aged Rip Van Winkle teenager,
in reverse osmosis of Big,
an old buck, come back to antlered life,
singing along to the CD disc
set on
backdate
*I could drink case of you,
and still be on my feet*
and he could
rediscovering the champagne taste
of a great first date,
feeling the heated blood and fevered mind,
symptoms of the pleasures of a robust
anticipate
thinking she's the one
who will make him great,
happy greater, greater happy
than that one ever, ever,
he thought was roulette~wheel possible,
landing on the red of hopeful for a
floodgate
overture spilling
months, days, minute minute moments (tiny time intervals),
of the fated faded last date later, the next eve, next day
or the next of never,
comes the
deflate
but then,
Joni singing comfort words,
reminding him that he would be,
wisely, sadly seeing, feeling,
both sides now, and yet again,
getting his mind back to
straight
*I've looked at love that way,
but now it's just another show.
you leave 'em laughing when you go,
and if you care, don't let them know,
don't give yourself away*
a grown man punk'd, blasted,
dumb and dumber, dumped,
a feeling sorry sad sack self,
until he himself
reflates,
drink another case,
onto yet another
magical mystery first
date
pounding that dashboard once again,
believing it's not too late
that perfect roommate heart's to find and
captivate,
to attain, invade, acquaint and laughingly...
serenade
Jul 5, 2016
Jul 5, 2016 at 8:38 PM UTC
Headlights, LED's, burning bright
Into my retinas, reflected in rear view
And side mirrors, a radiator grill just
Visible, almost the outline of a person
Behind the wheel, androgynous ghost,
Mad Max or just mad, determined
To drive to wherever, faster than
Anyone else, cocooned in black leather
Heads up display laid out across sweeping
Digital dashboard, vying to pass me;
But what of the queue plainly ahead
Stretching to far horizon, vanishing point,
Perhaps it is supernatural, absorbing traffic
Clearing the way by passing through it,
An alien craft with technology far
Advanced from our slow turning wheels
Selfishly driving alone in our home from
Home interiors, gathering subjects
For an out of this world experience
Or maybe a time machine
Like Back to the Future powered by flux
Capacitor, it will disappear and turn up
Ahead of all of us, or maybe my imagination
Has run riot and it's just another impatient
Idiot.
Jun 29, 2019
Jun 29, 2019 at 6:23 AM UTC
Ordinary people
carry action figures
on their dashboard
and stop in still traffic
on their way to work
to stare at the circus billboard
wishing they could be
the incredible flying man
who soars above the Ferris wheel
and disappears beyond the horizon.
The human cannonball lives
with his mother
in a musty basement
filled with old baseball cards,
beer can memorabilia,
an ash stained billiards table,
Chicago Bulls jerseys,
and pictures of Goldie Hawn
and Evil Knievel.
The human cannonball has
high blood pressure,
frequent anxiety,
a wheat allergy,
a jaw that pops
when opened too wide,
a crick in his neck,
a bruised shoulder
from falling
into the net
over and over.
Oct 30, 2012
Oct 30, 2012 at 1:31 AM UTC
At sixteen life ain't so bad.
There are some things I wish that I had,
like the experience of learning how to drive with Dad.
At sixteen life passes by too fast.
But luckily I have the love of a mother,
to keep me from thinking about my past.
At sixteen my head is in the clouds.
I dream about my future,
and who I'll be.
I write about true love,
and my own life's story.
I stay out late with a boy,
and don't care much for old toys.
At sixteen I don't claim to be perfect.
In fact I'm probably far from worth it.
I slack on chores,
and slam open doors.
I sing too loud,
my feet on the dashboard.
I've missed church on Sundays,
cause' sleeping in's what counts.
Lord knows grandma ain't too proud!
At sixteen there's so much I've done.
Stealing that boy's heart,
was just a start.
Kissing in the pouring rain,
even when I didn't feel any pain.
Whether it be,
living on quotes or writing poetry.
There's still so much this girl hasn't seen.
High heels and short skirts,
make-up and tight shirts.
On those days when I wanna look good.
Converse and skinny jeans,
ain't it funny how girls can be so mean...
At sixteen there's so much I want to do.
Like watching a sun set in his arms,
and seeing it rise on a distant shore.
Or riding the Dragster at Cedar Point,
without a fear of heights or falling out.
I wanna be a ride warrior at sixteen.
Then again...
At sixteen maybe I just want to be me!
Jul 9, 2013
Jul 9, 2013 at 11:48 AM UTC
How it starts is there's an apartment your family lives in
You do not live there
but your stuff does
Then you find out your mom brought bed bugs home from the rehab center
They are downsizing everything now
You show up with 3 boxes
and tell yourself
these can hold more than enough
Mostly you fill them with your favorite books
and in the heat of it
even that feels trivial
But you look at the photos in the frames
The pictures of you at six flags on your last birthday
You let those go
The paper towel painting Monica did at the lake
It's all in a box marked trash now
You joke to yourself about how silly
they would look on the dashboard of your car
The old electronics
and journals
writing contest trophies
You take an inventory
of everything you've ever owned
all your clothes have been thrown away
and you leave with just three boxes
and you ask yourself
"If my life were on fire
what would I save?"
only you can't answer that question
because when the fire is burning
it's not that everything looks as important as everything else
so much as nothing does
not even you
So you smile
and say that you are happy to leave everything behind
because now you have the joy of the memory of having it
Only this time
there is a girl
and she is riding shotgun in your car as you drive away
And maybe she can see the mixed emotion on your face
like driving of a cliff in your boss's car
only he is in the trunk
And she scratches the back of your head
and says
"Tell me a story handsome"
Aug 5, 2013
Aug 5, 2013 at 5:12 PM UTC
this is the flower on your dashboard
it's dark outside and (across the street there is a light) you're staring
at the stars
-there's a line- they say
-so be honest, be brave-
(and you've never seen it but you say -okay-)
you made a promise that night that night
(my head was heavy so
I nodded and sighed)
you know I'd never hurt you like that my love I'm all talk (all
words and nothing else)
this is a cigarette lighter
I've always wondered how people give things up for good
across the street there is a light (and you
are talking to) the dirt
unbridled untethered undone I know
-take a break- they say and you say
-okay-
I'm a wreck I'm a wreck I know I know
I'm sorry for dragging you into (me)
this is a lock (and this is a key)
forever for always or something
in the backyard baby when the rivers rise you know I neverever meant it that way I know
it's dark outside (there's a line there's a line)
and there's nowhere to go from here
you love me you love me you don't know where I've been
(-give it up- they say
and I say -okay-)
so you don't know me and I don't know you so turn your back and listen
this is the line so
be honest
be brave
-make a mark- they say and you say
-okay-
Jun 8, 2015
Jun 8, 2015 at 4:14 PM UTC