Let it always be
Us beneath this tree
Brittle leaves in our hands
Are crushed forever into sand
And someday so will we

And I want you to know
I'll hold you through the snow
The treeflowers will bring
Us their fruit in the spring
So we never have to go

I promise to stay true
Like the strong wind which blew
All the leaves from your hair
They turned to dust in the air
And one day we will too

The neighborhood was silent. There wasn’t a soul around this eerie town and the sun hadn’t peaked out of the clouds for days. The darkness of the land had swallowed the smiles of the population and nature had ceased to show its existence. The birds must have migrated early. The wind disrupted the branches of every tree that was in front of the houses; it left only the whisper of its presence behind.
Shadow’s alarm clock blared at the appropriate time of eight in the morning and he grunted at its ignorance. His girlfriend, Jessie, didn’t seem to care too much about his morning laziness. He didn’t even bother turning off the alarm. He simply rolled on his opposing side to ignore it. That seemed to require a larger effort than if he’d just gotten out of bed. Jessie remained motionless and wasn’t snoring like she usually did. She wore a long sky blue nightgown to bed and it brought out the true color of her blondish hair. She was lying on her stomach and her hands were tucked underneath the fluffy pillow. Shadow just peered at her through the crack of his eye as the sound of the alarm clock withered away his patience. Shadow heard his three-legged basset hound, Tripod, hobble to the nightstand and he began to lick Shadow’s left foot that was hanging out of the white silky bed sheets. The saliva dripped towards the floor and the grossness of the dog’s actions still wasn’t enough to get Shadow’s dead *** out of bed. The dog realized it had no affect on him and left the room.
Shadow had just gotten fired from his job as a technical engineer at a no-name computer store. He put computers together with both new and used parts and resold them to the customers. When he told Jessie, she was not supportive at all. They didn’t speak all last night and Shadow couldn’t imagine how this morning was going to go- another “Yes, MOTHER” conversation. He always had a problem with his temper. All hell broke loose when shadow didn’t get his way, but you’d think he had been taught not to swear at his boss when he got angry. Well, on the contrary his mind and anger had gotten the best of him. Guess Shadow saw that there was no reason for him to get out of bed. But his three-legged dog seemed to think so. He kept ignoring Tripod for some time and he **** all over the rug as a result of it.
Shadow felt a discomfort among his genitals as he stumbled to his feet to go to the bathroom. He concocted his usual bowl of cereal once he reached the kitchen across the hall and slurped up every last drop of milk. He thought distressingly about what Jessie was going to bring on him this morning. The sounds of static and distorted voices echoed through the room from the television- he walked back into his bedroom to get dressed. Shadow called out for his dog.
The job wasn’t so good anyway. Shadow was displeased with his boss from the beginning but he knew he needed to receive the checks- the pay was so good. He always had a passion for building computers and when he first explored this field, Spot would sit and watch Shadow build. Spot was his first dog, around the time when he was a teenager. He would sit there until Shadow was done and that might’ve been what caused him to like building them so much- it was the memory.
Shadow continued to call for Tripod but there was no response. The aroma of the dog **** grew more and more noticeable. The doors were closed so there was no doubt he didn’t escape again. He ran all around the house, opening doors and calling outside for him; peaking behind the furniture and the clothes within his closets for him. He spotted the pile of dog **** on the living room floor.
“What are you doing, Shadow?” Jessie asked.
“I am looking for the **** dog. He **** on the rug again.”
“What are you talking about?” asked Jessie.
“OUR dog!??” said Shadow.
The air began to blow through the rooms of the house and the papers that were neatly stacked on Shadow’s desk began to fall to the floor. Jessie sat up in bed and the wind carried her hair across her scull and it made her look even more beautiful than ever. Her hazel-green eyes remained staring a Shadow with the same goofy look of concern but she still looked beautiful.
“I don’t know if I’m alright. My face hurts…” said Shadow.
“Shadow, I DID hit you pretty hard last night. Remember?” asked Jessie. “I threw that little book-end at you and it hit you in the cheek bone. I didn’t mean it, I AM sorry.”
“It’s fine, Jess. I was being a ****. But really, where’s the dog?”
“I don’t know, he’s you’re dog. Let me get dressed and I’ll help you look for him,” said Jessie.
The window shades were pulled up so the light could shine throughout the house but there wasn’t much light to affect anything. It was still dark and moody in the sky and the storm was still passing though the area. Shadow had to turn every light on in the house to see, even though it was ten in the morning. He knew he needed to find a job, but he wanted to find this dog. He ran around the house looking for every trace of dog fur. The sounds of Jessie getting dressed were coming from the closet.
“Could you hurry up and help me, honey? I need to find this mutt,” said Shadow.
Shadow had given Jessie a special license plate for her birthday last year. It said “Jessie” on it and it was very hard to get. He had to call months in advance to purchase that plate. It was now implanted on his silver Jetta. Shadow’s job was right down the street, so he just rode a bike to work every day and let Jessie use the Jetta.
The job Shadow had used to drive him crazy. He’d work for hours on fixing or building motherboards and if it didn’t work, he’d have to start over. He’d come home in the worst moods after a hard day’s work. He didn’t want dinner; he didn’t want to hear from anybody, though Jessie liked to talk. And that’s where Shadow got very aggravated. He began to yell at her because she asked him questions and he would kick over Tripod’s food and water and storm out of the house in a rage; leaving the front door open behind him. But Shadow didn’t leave last night. He wasn’t the one who stormed out in a rage because he was too tired for that. Jessie left with the dog and claimed she was going to stay at her mother’s for the evening. They must have come back in the house late last night. The dog must be here. Shadow and Jessie kept looking for Tripod while calling out his name to come in sight. Tripod finally walked through the door form the back yard and barked a weak screeching bark.
“It’s about time, Podders! It’s about time we accomplished that dilemma” said Shadow as he looked up at Jessie and back at Tripod.
“What the ****?!” he said. The dog had blood all around his gumball nose and his droopy lips and walked away from them into the bedroom.
“I give up,” said Jessie. “You gotta clean that dog up because I am not going to go near that Blood; I already cleaned up the dog ****. What has he been through?”
“I don’t know…” answered Shadow.

In the mean time, I’m going to go shopping for some new shoes,” Jessie. “I’ll be back later this afternoon, alright?”
Shadow sat on his favorite recliner chair in the living room. She kissed his forehead, grabbed her keys and walked out the front door.
There was silence. He was alone.
Shadow immediately got up and opened the front door to grab the daily town newspaper from the steps. He noticed that the Jetta had already left the driveway and wondered why Jessie must have been in such a hurry. He looked down the gloomy dark street and saw no sign of life. He closed the front door, locked it, and sat back down on his recliner. He unfolded the newspaper and wiggled his toes to the melody of his improvisational hum.
The hum suddenly came to a halt. The toes stopped wiggling. Shadow didn’t seem to breathe. He read the front page of the news paper and couldn’t believe his eyes. There was a Jetta- or maybe it wasn’t because it didn’t look like one. Maybe that was the point. There was no hood; there was no front seat. There were two photos: one of the car and one of the whole accident. A Tractor trailer was involved and no one in the Jetta made it. Shadow started to breathe slightly again and came to his senses; tried to collect himself. He saw the license plate and couldn’t believe his eyes.
There was silence. He was alone. He was alone the whole time.

I was last on the register, so

as soon as I said

that I was still there

everyone stood up and left.

Katie was still there

and she pointed at me and

asked me if I was coming tonight.

I said that guessed not and she asked me

If I knew that she wasn’t

my girlfriend.

I didn’t answer so she informed me

that I wasn’t allowed to be jealous that

she goes to parties that I don’t.

I asked, ‘what party?’ and she rolled her eyes

and left. I walked out of the classroom alone and

wondering what the hell just happened.

James saw me across the yard

and shouted

if I was coming tonight.

I told him to *******

and walked quicker

every time he tried to

call me back.

A few kids on the bus

swore at me through

the open window, their

middle fingers and crude words

working together in pitiless tandem.

I turned up the volume

in my ipod

and kept on walking.

It carried on snowing. It had been

three days now and three times

we had been called to assembly

so the headmaster could announce

which schools had been closed for the day.

That morning he was

proud to tell us

that we were the only school

in the area

to still be open.

The snow was four inches deep

and rising and grey and dangerous.

Through the frosted windows

in the front door I could see

my keys. I kicked the wall

and nearly shattered my toes.

I climbed over my gate to the back of my house.

For a while I thought about

breaking a window.

The cat found me and pawed me shins

and I told her I was sorry,

but I couldn’t let her in the house.

I sat in a frozen plastic chair

and looked across the white

and green garden. The cat

joined me, and sat on my lap,

her body as close to me as possible.

I zipped her up inside my jacket

so only her head poked out and

we sat there,

watching cartoon’s on my ipod.

Batman fought The Joker again, and

Gumball finally got to kiss Penny.

The Joker escaped again

and Gumball realised

that it was all a dream.

It got cold and dark and eventually

both the cat and I fell asleep.

My mother shook me awake

and unzipped my jacket to let the cat out.

She asked me if I had a good day at school, and

I rubbed my eyes

and told her that

I couldn’t remember.

When the gore began, it was just a flowing river of reddy blood.

Out of an aquamarine fireball of yellow out of the Sahasra,
I was nowhere but inside my head.
IT was pale green and bright indigo all around.
Crowded.
Enchantress Revealing.

Twists and turns did not stop the telepathy.
With a pastel smile on a pale beige brawn, everything blended in flesh and blood of my dreams.
Were it mine?

Or was it that of the girl from the screen?  

For more than a hour, I loved everything that I despised and the other way too.
In fact, I was even one with the smudgy blades of the cooler fan in front.

When it ended, I knew perhaps the rainbows and rainclaps on every planet across the cosmos.
A day after, everything is monochrome with a dash of anger.

And oh I ache, like a creaking door, like a rusty faucet pipe. I can hear all the blood running it's errands in the sides of my head, it's this bathroom, this ******* bathroom. I feel like the turning handle on a mall gumball machine, no, then I feel like the ******* gumball, and I fall to the little black crevice with door, and you roll me out and pop me into your mouth, chewing hard and your spit is turning blue and I'm getting softer and softer in your lips. A caged Ocelot, and all I have to look to for a golden tomorrow is the poster of all the colorful wildlife, advertising this sickness. This pinging on a metal ceiling. This brownness. But my posters are of a different pair of devastating blue eyes that I know are evil too, but I pacify myself with the thought that they are so light because they are pure and clear, not because they are cold and hard. I started crying in my sleep. And I wake up with the streetlight shining through the window from that ***** alley that I love, and my face is so wet and so pink, and I say it's better that I cry unknowingly than consciously. I beg and toss for migration and distraction, chaos, oh baby where did you go? You can't leave me here with loose pieces of skin and a sick heart. You can't pick off the bottles on the ledge one by one with a rubber band and some pebbles and leave me with nothing. All I've got left are some nail polish bottles, some concert tickets, a few empty backseats. Things are either so incredible and hopeful or so *****, filthy, like gas stations, like the inside of ovens, and my fingers are becoming calloused. I'm floating like a cherry in a ***** shirley. Oh come, with your fingers in my hair, and kiss me.

i always find you in the strangest places.
i find you in song lyrics, dog toys, and timber old spice.
i find you in chicken flavored ramen noodles, every shade of blue and purple, and horror movies.
i find you in rainbow coloring books, permanent markers, and colored pencils.
i find you in the grass at memorial park, folded slips of paper in my back pocket, and gourmet lollipops.
i find you in hot fudge sundaes, too-big tshirts, and icp snapbacks.
i find you in chik-fil-a receipts, gumball machines, and arcade games.
i find you in white roses, blue ribbons, animal crackers, and sour gummy worms.
i always find you in the strangest places.
but these strange places are everywhere.

People say you can tell a lot about a woman's style by what her nails look like.
For my mother, acrylics with baby pink sparkly french-tips.
For the blonde sitting at the nail dryer, coral.
Something about the color
looks strange with her new engagement ring.
She talks about how the second time she hung out with her fiancé
she asked him to paint her nails.
Her mother, who she insists she'll pay for, gets french tips.
They look new and fresh in contrast to her tarnished wedding ring.
The little girl with skinned knees and bug bites sitting in the chair across from me asks for blue polish on her toe nails.
Her mother tells her she should get pink.

2.
The act of women getting their nails done reminds me of warriors being armed for a fight.
long acrylics,
pointed,
rounded,
squared,
all fit for different types of battle.
Pointed for the woman who has to walk home alone at night,
rounded for the woman in the workplace who must work harder than her male co-workers,
and square for the woman at home raising her kids to know that strength and kindness
are the same thing.


3.
The women who work here speak better English than most high school students.
And their accents tell stories that I will never know.
An older woman speaks loudly and slowly,
she treats them as if they do not understand.
She will not speak to anyone but the owner; she wants him to translate what she wants to the salon workers.
What she doesn't realize is
that she is the only person here who doesn't understand.

4.
The little girl's doll is named Tessa.
She tells me that she likes my hair and shoes,
even though she has been told not to talk to strangers
twice in the last hour she has been here.
She asked her mother for change,
we all assume it's for the gumball machine in the corner.
She puts all of it in the charity jar.
I hope this girl never changes.

5. Having bare nails in a nail salon
feels the same as being naked in public.

6.
I feel terrible for laughing at the women trying to walk in those little salon flip-flops.
Some look like ducks,
others look like trained Barbies;
marching
newly polished,
ready for the world to chip away their coating
over,
and over,
and over again.

I’ve had this red heart shaped locket

for 12 years now.

I got it as a gumball prize

at a rundown Chinese restaurant

(maybe in Germantown?)

A lot of the paint has chipped off

and the tiny keys to it are long gone.

What shows beneath the paint

is shinny tin.

When I was a tacky teen

I would wear it clasped around my

neck imitating Sid but not

knowing it.

I always wanted someone to give me

something like this

but I impatiently jumped the gun and

cranked the dial of the machine

myself,

and the tiny Valentine rolled out.

(SINCERELY, YOURS TRULY)

No sentiment to share.

Now I’m nearly 30

and it hangs on my key chain,

a teenaged 50 cent memory

amongst adult responsibility.

If you see me standing crossed arm at a show,

and spy my red locket,

know that I’m an advocate of

living in the past,

and harboring silly passions.

The tick of toothed gear
Gives handfuls of a surprise
Mike & Ike tasters.

I am a ragdoll stuffed with two-cent cotton imitation in a factory in China.
My arms and legs moved by hands seen through mismatched button eyes.
my only desire is to be like other dolls: Barbies, Polly Pockets.  Big eyes and plastic bodies.

My pills come in a bottle like a gumball machine, dispensing one brightly colored sphere at a time.  

Pills to make me, like them.

The artificial emotion seeping into my veins.
Sweating out my pores.
Plastering smiles on my face, and ironing rainbow patches behind my eyes.

A giant sugar-coated crutch shoved under my armpit.
Force-fed lying happiness.

Here comes the choo-choo into the tunnel.

I am a cat eating grass to make itself *****.

I want to move my own ragdoll arms, sit up without a metal pole behind my back.
I want a straight line stitched on my face so I can choose to make it go down.
Or up,
Or diagonal,
Or shed my potato-sack skin and metamorphose into a trumpet.
With freedom to resound over mountaintops,
Dribble liquid gold from my singing mouth.

But I am a ragdoll.

Whose head is stuffed with two-cent cotton imitation on a factory floor in China.

Whose only desire is to be real.

This is tiresome

The thrashing energy
The struggling concepts of
This interior and that exterior

The back and forth,
The up all night but
Still dreaming

The "am I crazy?",
The hopeless spirals
That circle and drain into
The soil, and plant
The "It's gonna be ok"
That sprouts a new day

I felt my pulse stutter when I spoke of you
long before I met you, back when
I was marooned on the Island
with a bunch of sourpusses some years ago,
who told me it would have taken
a pipeline chilled on dry ice (with a faucet installed)
for all the people in Hell who want iced water,
and a meteor the size of Mauna Loa
tearing through every layer
of realistic expectations to discover you.

and that the meteor would still end up
the size of a gumball by the time
it hit the pavement, and the first drop of water
would get to the ****** warm as ****,
and they almost had me convinced,
crossing fingers and predicting meteor showers
before I learned of you by name,
swore Hell's patrons could stay parched
for all I cared, and headed west for forty-two miles
until I found you in a part of the Island
where those sore losers must've never bothered to look.

since then, I've made a list of reasons
why nothing's felt more profoundly simple
and beautiful to me than each instance
where I could have sworn your signals synced with my pulse.
and they're all worth explaining, but I've grown
more timid at twenty-two, and mostly stare
at the bottle of Magic Hat, the roof of the shed,
the scruff on your upper-lip or the creases in your shoes,
just to avoid making eye-contact
(though you don't seem to mind it.)

speaking of then, back at the shed,
when you were tapping your foot
to one of Twain's records, I was going to mention
something about how I love the sound
hard-heeled shoes make when they click against vinyl,
tile and hardwood floors, because it's soothing to me—
the same way the tone in your voice was
when you saw the Sour Belts on the candy rack,
when you thanked the gas station clerk
on the way out, told me you were having fun,
and softly brushed my hand
before you asked to borrow my lighter;
it's just a sound I adore.

though I wouldn't clarify whether I meant
the click of heels or the sound of your voice,
because I know it's going to sound silly either way,
so I speak to you in Morse code
and send the signals to myself
to remember there are things that
will always mean more than
they probably really do—

to you, to the world, to the psychic
who guaranteed simplicity and tenderness
for me when I was nineteen, and
probably laughed her way to the bank,
bought a gumball-sized rock on a silver ring,
and will be in stitches by the time she gets to Hell
to buy a round for the ******* underground
who are placing bets that I might be wrong about you,
and that I'll lose your signal soon
whether or not I want to.

You toss my heart around like a toy yo-yo on a thin fraying string
Oh please watch that string,
Fear swells in my throat like child's gumball
Please don't let that string fray to far
I'm trusting you with so much
But Please Please don't let my heart go swinging into an abyss

a genius metaphor
that displays wit and insight
is more a matter of inspiration
than of the will
I did not experience
the PCH a day removed
if not for the use of a muse
is the sun nothing more
than a mass of flammable gas
or perhaps a nuclear gumball
leisurely crushing the horizon
radiant backlit heavenly body
meets with a pacified body of water
for a consensual coitus
orange and purple
two thirds of
the secondary color wheel collide
panoramic dusk in the rear view
as the moon prepares to mount the sky
gathering waves like a shepherd
lazy tides that vacation on sandy beaches
beaches that conceal mysterious truths
beneath cold infinite grains
tucked inconveniently between my toes

My car broke down

Across from the mechanic's shop,
I'm bowling a perfect
zero
with the bumpers up

My shoes get stolen

Barefoot in the tire lounge,
I chip my tooth on a gumball

the dentist pulled
the wrong teeth
he said it was my fault
so I apologize

I'm late for work

My boss is yelling
about something

I zone out

I don't explain myself

I get fired

I pack my box with nothing
but static air
filled with three-and-a-half
years

No one says goodbye
No one seems to notice

Except you

You call my name

You hug me
for the first time
ever

You even asked me
to call sometime

There's nothing else
I can do
but smile

and be smitten
from your laughing
at my new gold teeth

The screws are tightening round my skull
In the same place where all the voices come from
Though this is no accident, no health misfortune
By now, yes, I’ve begged for it, begged for it to come
You call yourself a killer, well then finish the job
You call yourself a thrill, but the ones from me are all you’ve got
This terra is not my pill, when all kind monsters are forgot
As the real terror slaps on Maybelline, straps on a guitar
Somewhere in Xayide’s lair lies my memories
Packed like spheres of glass in a gumball machine
Someday I’ll return to sepia and monochrome
As another Dorothy clicks her heels…
*(Going anyplace but home)

The grave of my teenage daughter
is a restaurant she was born at 16.
I was told she began smoking long reds for long breaks – they lasted 15 minutes at most – and she had her first sip of alcohol there. Coffee liqueur from a straw in booth 14 from a customer who later became her lover.

The next lover was the second to slap her, and following that was the first kiss she ever received from someone she admired – even though he didn’t admire her back.
It was near the gumball machine, right between the hanging claw and the golfing game. Neither had worked in years. But the lights still flickered, and she always used to talk about how the neon chants radiated across his grimace when he asked her for a kiss.

Even he knew it was only for her.
Even she knew it was never for him.
But she agreed anyway.

The waiter told me that she smoked an entire pack of Menthols after, as if to brush her teeth, but it didn’t cleanse a mint memory. It only burned it away, etched it into the cement curb where we last saw her – drinking one last time as the yellowing sky stretched over the horizon and left her smoke as ash against the morning mist.

Crosses in the sky
With belief, emphasized
Create a force field of light
That wards off invaders
And curious crusaders
All their silver ships
Crashing and burning to bits
Right next to our southern cactus
Crosses in the sky
Now that all faith has died
Create nothing but an off-blue sky
That welcomes all others
With tendrils, who hover
Now, intentions are smudged
Will they ask us to budge
Or turn us into sludge
We kept them out before
But we still took pride in war
Now we’ve woken up
But our eyes are still shut
Brain got bigger but it
Beat our hearts to a pulp
The missing element
Of a radar that’s bent
Still, a burning cross
Is better than none at all
We can watch it while the grey ones
Swim among the telephone poles
With nothing inside we’re filled up
Like a gumball machine of lies
Brain got bigger but it
Beat our hearts to a pulp

Poets are sent to a special kind of hell;
Where you put in a coin,
and the gumball colour you want comes out.

It is by being given what we feel we deserve
That we run out of things to write.

So often I write the phrase “the wind whispered”,
but the wind is not whispering now.
No.
The wind is screaming violently in my ears.
The frenzied scream of rebel soldiers in the midst of bloodshed
cognizant of the ****** that lies ahead.
Maniacal.

Yet, it is not the howling air I think of
even as my hair is tossed in all directions,
like bowing trees appeasing a hurricane.
There is no time to think of the wind.
The concrete is only thirteen stories away.

Somehow I think of something even less relevant than the movement of air.
I was nine.
The ice cream truck parked next to the football field
playing that song.
The one that calls to children like a Siren.
The proud trumpet of capitalism.
I approached,
“I’ll have the pink one please, with gumball at the bottom.”
“You got it.  That’ll be a dollar fifty young man”
my hand slides into my left pocket  –
quarter, dime, penny, penny, dime.
Right pocket -
Dime. Dime. Nickel.
Impatient eyes.
Back pocket s-
Nothing.
Horror.
Embarrassment.
Then the man steps up from behind me,
gray hairs creeping out of his nose.
Gold ring, with a ruby red stone.
Three dollars on the counter,
“Make it two of the pink ones.”

My mind has not seen that man in years.
Perhaps I have made a mistake.
Then I see her eyes,
and I know have not.

maybe it was the sixteen bars
or the sixteen hours

or the scent of desert flowers

got me drunk

got me dreamin

maybe it was the real ripping at the seams of yr mask

how fast we shed sick skin have thinned

air in valleys consumed

mountains

throbbing in my view

have worn stones

too

many burdens

carried

maybe it was the runaway fame

the shame in her eye

stopping for highway change

desert empty

empty me to be filled

follicles to grow again

gumball heaven

altitude

high

It's alright, It's Ok


It's Ok
To faint in living rooms alone
To wake to dogs panting
To panic in cities you have never slept in.

When I was six,
I loved a boy,
He proposed with a
Dora the explorer
gumball ring, and
It was the best day of my life,
until it wasn't.

When I was thirteen,
I loved another boy,
I kissed him,
and felt loved,
and it was the best day of my life,
until it wasn't.

When I was fifteen,
I fell in love with a boy,
and even now,
after so much time,
every day is the best day of my life,
and it always will be.

It's true what they say about young love,
Your mind is new,
and you don't know how you'll change,
but there are the youngins that love you,
despite all that.
believe me, I know.
Because I will always love a boy with
ocean eyes and a silly smile,
and you can just discard
what they say

a.s.

I threw a quarter
into the wishing well
and the well
granted my request
of course all I asked for
was a gumball
still pretty cool.

VII**

The water starts easily, helplessly
licking my tires with passionate peace
As the current builds I can feel my hubcaps rusting
peeling away all those years of clacking British
pavement
and dogs taking a leak despite scolding
strangers
and children’s bouncy *****
gliding just short of an auto wreck

the icy ocean digs underneath my doors
it cuts my cushioned seats
like cobra teeth
Tearing away the midnight kisses
rides to dark places
and the beautiful dusk rainfalls
--If I think a while, in this bubbling
reverie
I can feel the sizzling raindrops
pattering

When the water reaches my wheel I
moan my engine
collapsing inside, wishing I could cry
but any oil would float away
and infest the souls I know will soon
surround me.
It isn’t long before I must hold my breath
and my wheels gently feel a folding of the floor
wood splitting shatters the still air that has
entranced me into my imminent
sleep

nothing, nothing
I all rust
looping bubbles and
twirling like a gumball down the
candy store machine
fallingfallingfallingapart
I explode on an ocean floor
with no hope of returning
even the memories they gave me won’t set me
free

so I only
watch the dust
settle


settle

Colors,
Are   m o r e   c o l o r f u l
When painted on your lips,
My little darling!
I'll show you how
To make the world blossom w/ dandelions
With a  g e n t l e   k i s s !
I'll teach you how to send it flying,
To reach boundaries,
Not even spaceships can reach.
I'll give you millions of it,
C o u n t l e s s   as the stars,
Lasting like the skies.

As years leap in harmony,
Those lips, will sing
Music not even heard of.
But I will keep it in tune.
Make it a curve
Like a  s m i l i n g  m o o n !
I'll make it as many as
Your favorite gumball machine.
Cause I will be your witness
And I shall  n e v e r  f o r g e t
Those lips
That called me in a name
I'll die to  p r o t e c t . .