"insincerity" poems
Skin blushed peach on snow white cheeks
Luster and grandeur not seen by the meek
Intrinsically dominant furnace of femininity
Dither and hither be stricken for insincerity
If you try to speak to her expect less then levity
To your advances she implies depravity
Blatantly ignorant vacuous blond *****
Tell me again how I hate you and want ***
Mar 17, 2015
Mar 17, 2015 at 10:05 AM UTC
The idiocy,
Sheer insincerity
Of political apologies.
It WAS meant to offend.
You chose the words carefully.
A dog's-whistle in your mouthpiece.
Your career is your priority.
You are a glorified carnival barker,
With a reputation as an intellect,
But many do detect ******** in your overblown prose
(except those who are equally verbose).
Will your papa be disappointed
If you are never to be anointed?
Your education makes being PM a career choice,
So power for it's own sake should really be a piece of cake.
So how about it, Boris?
Will we hear more Horace?
How much do you want it?
Enough to blow your own Trumpette?
Oct 30, 2018
Oct 30, 2018 at 4:54 PM UTC
One is seemingly more impressed
by the less endowed or blessed
when somewhat incapacitated
and borderline inebriated;
the monstrous unconscious
disregards the likelihood
of fathomless undergarments
in other dubious departments.
Disregard the random blotches
or the involuntary discharges
instead revel in model tonsils
and almond shaped parcels
the comets of multi-notches
like a strange attraction
for disheveled carpets.
The blossoms of toxins
a libation ensemble
almost near horizontal
each movement a bent nozzle
like a prehistoric Narwhal
dancing like a jackhammer
with the elegance of a cement mixer
a broken leaking fissure
seeping vapid glamour
and indecipherable grammar.
The paraphrased clichés
and communiques of praise
like lost prophets put on display
caught in the ricochet of overplay
making an exit with the grace
of a stumbling ballet
down a poorly-lit
nightclub passageway.
Ultimately this can only lead to
the face-plant moment-of-tomorrow
the flooded memory of the-night-before
feeling utterly spent
hungover and hollow
with ill conceived consent.
The: Oh. My. God!
The: ***** is still here,
what do I say?
Hoping inexorably
they would just get up
and silently fade away.
Beer Goggles:
remember to drink sensibly,
or run the risk of
nasty STD's
or unwanted pregnancy
or breathless infidelity
or reckless insincerity
or if you're really lucky,
just another
session in therapy.
Jul 11, 2014
Jul 11, 2014 at 9:17 AM UTC
Aye, Vladimir, just before I met thee
I hath been sure I hath loved him-
no matter as queer as it may hath seemed!
Thou knowest not, how much tears I hath shredded
and noticest not, how t'eir vanity made me look dead!
But why-why then didst thou appear-
and wokest within me t'is secret fear-
with understanding in thy eyes,
and with a love t'at is to me so dear.
Why-why t'en thou left me, left me again!
Whenst I got to knowest thou but for a moment,
ah, with not so much of an endearment-
afforded ourselves only t'at streak of lovely,
but still weak of too a bond,
or any pact, of young novelty.
And everything was corrupt
As soon as thou re-released me
into t'ese qualms of insincerity
wherest I am still tossed about, guilty.
And hushed, hushed always,
like a trivial, parallel wind!
As though my dear heart's bathed in sin
and of a soul t'at is so thin
So worthy not of thy soulfulness
and sweet dreams of many happinesses.
Ah, Vladimir! If only thou could knowest
T'is thread of passion thou hath sowed
and how my entirety seekest being loved
By thee, and only by thee, o my rain!
As thou art but king to my sneaky moon
and my very own kingdom of stars
Not him-not him, o t'is I entreat,
albeit his wits hath been but to me so sweet.
Still he be a mistake, ah, a chilly autumn mistake
to me, from whom I didst just turn awake.
Probably thou would hath loved me;
imperishably and blindingly,
until all thy superb charms and wit
t'at wert but tortured and unbending
shalt be left within me lit;
and thus leaving our fiery souls entwined
with winds t'at art even sweeter
yet might be torturously everlasting.
Vladimir, Vladimir, oh my only Vladimir!
Thou altogether belongst with me; here,
so unjustly yet heavenly
And in our hands is cherished
our love, o, so wickedly-but fatefully!
How I longst to be thy lover, dearest-
and be so comely as thy only flower;
which ripens thickly in thy winter
and blooms robustly, in thy summer.
Mar 20, 2013
Mar 20, 2013 at 7:07 AM UTC
A patriotic fervor producing fealty
A noble cause compelling loyalty
Paired with a callous indignity
Brash enlistee plunges toward destiny
Honor's badge worn with impunity
Duty's moniker embossed with magnanimity
Insatiable bloodlust quelshing all insecurity
Unbridled ego clamoring a garrulous enmity
Toward the villains who shattered blithe serenity
First skirmish, pageantry displaced by gravity
Mettle varnished with aura of invincibility
First battle, fallen comrades question mortality
Successive battles, severed limbs, caustic wounds challenge credulity
Fragile mind being conditioned to atrocity
War's heavy mantle now shorn of indemnity
Threatening mind's sanity, hearth's perpetuity
Once faceless foes now scream their humanity
Once noble leaders brim with insincerity
Supportive countrymen now fickle, distant entity
Cheering press now rank with duplicity
Only solace, hardened comrades equanimity
Jul 25, 2012
Jul 25, 2012 at 6:03 PM UTC
fake, see through
fake
insincerity overdose
choke it back
fake
false, feel it
false
exterior brittle
break it down
false
opinionated, hear you
opinionated
voice resonating
spit it out
opinionated
self, runs through you
self
always about you
change the tune
self
others, why don't
you see
others
spell out the word
others
know it
won’t you know it
Jul 30, 2012
Jul 30, 2012 at 4:19 PM UTC
If “I love you”
Was a burden,
Would you still
Eagerly return it?
If “I hate you”
Was a warning
Would you still
Say it so easily?
“I mean it, really I do.”
Then why is it filled
With insincerity?
A joke,
A bluff,
It always is.
But do you
Weigh
The meaning
Of the words you spit?
Sep 12, 2025
Sep 12, 2025 at 5:47 AM UTC
Oh, fuming teardrop!
You’ve boiled over from wrath and anger,
leaving painful blisters as you sear the heart
Why you don’t evaporate is a wonder
but there must be a valid reason…
If only to let the heart know it lives
Oh, fuming teardrop!
Will you ever learn how to forgive?
Oh, defiant teardrop!
Teetering on the edge and glistening,
refusing to fall to make yourself known
It is not fickle mindedness playing,
rather, a power play of emotions
a blatant refusal to show what’s within
Oh, defiant teardrop!
Why even stop yourself before you begin?
Oh, crocodile teardrop!
If you were truly so, slink back shamefully,
recede to your lacrimal gland and stay put
There is no need for your insincerity,
the world is chaotic as it is, too troubled
Fall not, trickle not, trick not who see you
Oh, crocodile teardrop!
How can you be so heartless to fool people so true?
Oh, pensive teardrop!
How gracefully you streak down window sills
Wash away grime and grit, cleanse everything
Flow unhindered, purify hearts you fill
Laughter may be the music of the soul,
but you are pure— the distilled spirit
Oh, pensive teardrop!
Will you course down blackened hearts, pay a visit?
Oh, jubilant teardrop!
Married to laughter, frolic and dance to its tune
Give birth to hope then soar with elation
Brighten faces, sparkle days, light up the moon
Let souls remember that you speak of pain, joy
Let them remember, then allow them to heal
Oh, jubilant teardrop!
Why did I ever doubt that you are spirit revealed?
Aug 31, 2011
Aug 31, 2011 at 4:24 AM UTC
*if only I knew how to love...
for my Victoria
winces-grimaces, that these words even leave my fingertips,
reminiscences, a chrome bookmark tab full of decades of near misses,
instances, subway sideway stolen daily glances of she who would be the only, the one, but one day failed to appear, left to dream peer,
and/or
decades long of romanced lasses, flying spectacular super crashes, when my heart-blanched, lanced, and the lawyers danced, poems shriveled as dried ink crack'd and words rusted shut,
cut by so many p'raps, and ugly motives, beautiful covered up, disguised as synapses of sin and insincerity, and I,
the sad man,
both the sinner and the sinned against,
totalities, of shoulda-woulda-asked/kissed-her-gallantly,
activities, when kisses were doorways to trap door rooms
and an over decorated monte cristo prison cell
ah well
the 'and yet,' the 'but for,' a single finger, sealing silenced lips,
passions mourned and irrevocable sensations, frittered, fractured,
all that I calmly called love was sprigs and broken branches,
cut flowers destined to shrivel,
not of what I believed in, something akin to a tree rooted, an oaken strong unbreakable love
of this certain, all approximations, all failed incantations,
for surely, if but only one escaped, could have been saved,
and if truthful love it was,
I would have known it,
for would I have dared to let slip away?
Jul 14, 2017
Jul 14, 2017 at 6:05 PM UTC
SUFFERING was a word invented by a man
with a silver spoon and fork,
with a nice brain that matched their junk
a brain that didn’t whisper i love yous in the middle of the night
when you’re trying just to get some sleep
but your mind
echoes self-love where you can’t get it.
and that word is whispered to the back of my head
to the front of my chest
inbetween my thighs like maybe you’ll make a difference
if you express sympathy for a body,
just a body that oozes what you would call
misfortune.
but i am not your headline;
people like me are not your story,
you put me down with black ink on white paper
and your dichotomy echoes the insincerity
in your sincerity
the way you cannot understand that when you put
transgender or gay you expect it to mean tragedy.
i am not your tragedy
**** do not chain me to a stereotype
i am not “your trans* friend,”
a unicorn that has been trapped and ****** of silver blood,
my ****** chains me to a history of hostility and scars
that i have risen ABOVE.
i see your face fall when i say my body is beautiful,
and hear your hitching breath when i tell you i am just like you
a being with a body who is trying to see
the glory in mismatched parts
imperfect scars
and i am not SUFFERING
i grabbed the word from the dictionary
and shoved it down your throat.
Dec 20, 2012
Dec 20, 2012 at 10:06 PM UTC
I dont know any cool pickup lines,
I stole them from TV
Hey baby do you have the time?
You just walked away from me
Im not cool or smooth
And I'm not slick
And I need to think of something quick
He didnt write for you, that punk rock love song,
He stole it from the Byrds
He just changed the chords
And never bothered to learn the words
But he's got you hooked
Your pulse
Is racing
You know that hes a traitor
He's a one-track trouble maker
And he's rotten company
But he's got you in his sights
You're going home with him tonight
Another loveless casualty
He keeps you coming back for more but now
Hes into someone new
He changed the locks on both my doors
So I guess that means we're through
But baby dont go,
He isn't home
And I'm waiting
I know that he's a traitor
A true master debater
Such sincere insincerity
Without hesitation
Standing in ovation to
Your perfect symmetry
We'd take it slow
But we both know
He's waiting
You know that hes a traitor
Silver tounged negotiator
And he's plotting mutiny
You dont know him quite like I do
Once he's had his way, he'll leave you
To a taxi company
And he's immune to my handy remedy,
Just come inside, he asks persuadingly
But you, you're thinking of me
Just spend the night
We'll work it out
Tomorrow
You know that hes a traitor
He's a one-track trouble maker
And he's rotten company
But he's got you in his sights
You're going home with him tonight
Another loveless casualty
That little ******* part of me
Jun 29, 2014
Jun 29, 2014 at 1:38 PM UTC
My brain is knotted to my head with ties I should unravel.
I guess it doesn’t do me any good to sit and think.
And in my dreams I’m in a boat and then the current makes it sink
and blood just pours into the ocean til I’m left with feeling weak
and these thoughts burn inside me deeper than the comfort that I seek.
It’s all a waste
and what’s the point if I would let my findings go
if it meant I’d see the outline of my sharp and brittle bones?
Clinging to every song I hear to search it for a kind of purpose
I could try to find a God to show me all this isn’t worthless.
Perhaps there was a word you said that made me keep on crawling
past the people who have told me I should focus on my calling.
Or perhaps it was a word you never stuck around to say
and I am left here on my own to try to seize these god **** days.
My mind is a machine creating thoughts that are contrived
and they can see the insincerity that’s dripping from my eyes.
Oct 19, 2012
Oct 19, 2012 at 3:28 PM UTC
I wear baggy clothes so that I can feel skinnier.
I reread all of the notes I've saved almost every night.
I write really loopy because it's hard for me to let go.
I close my eyes and imagine things, constantly.
I paint with black because colors are too interesting.
I rub my face when I'm stressed, or I claw at my skin.
I wear my hair over my face so I can't see people staring.
I hate liquid eyeliner, insincerity, and pomegranates.
I love being in the rain because it stings, cleans, drenches.
I want to either die young or marry young, always have.
I try to walk everywhere I go so I can lose more weight.
I wish I remembered how to be happy.
Jan 2, 2015
Jan 2, 2015 at 4:26 PM UTC
Preach your colourful knowledge of me,
From a jaw that could hold nothing more than a faint whisper of insincerity
And a flailing bird tangled on your tongue.
But when the rainbow bursts;
Don't attempt to rain materialism down on me
Stuff your grocery store heart shaped chocolates up your nose.
And stop dreaming up all the sadness I stand for.
I am not your fixer-upper-er.
I am whole, trust me,
The serpent rejoins once cut
And heals.
I am a serpent, rainbow and colourless.
Materialistic seduction...
Give me a minute while I puke fluro ***** on your shoe,
You are the needy one and I remain whole...
Scuffed and cracked
I am healing, alone.
But I am whole.
Mixing strings of blues, greens and pinks
Into one strand,
There are scars.
Nov 24, 2013
Nov 24, 2013 at 8:09 AM UTC
Life begins.
A simple beginning,
That quickly blackens,
And fills with lies.
Insincerities fly.
Mother tries and tries,
But father dies
And the world corrupts my eyes.
*** and violence and filth disguise
Themselves Like spies.
Insincerities fly.
Several birthdays pass,
A great relief:
They do not last.
Candles burn and blister,
Trying to erase and cover
The grief.
People thanking,
People wishing,
People praying,
All for my
Wellbeing.
Insincerities fly.
Out on my own,
Meeting new people,
Still somehow alone.
A door opens and closes.
A necktie
Adorns my clothes.
“Hello, Hello.”
Insincerities fly.
My father’s tombstone,
My mothers Aching, breaking bones,
A lack of numbness.
Sadness.
The ringing of a door,
The knocking of a visitor.
Sickness.
A doctor.
Pills and plugs and prying,
All with A false reply.
Insincerities fly.
Everyday, without fail. Insincerity. People saying hello and goodbye. People are born and people are dead. At each occasion they say “I'm well” and they say “I'm fine.” They say “good day” and “thanks.”
Insinceritas
Nov 18, 2012
Nov 18, 2012 at 11:48 PM UTC
Sliding lies
tracing convincing paths down her cheeks
Never do they fall when they should
in times of pain
or times of suffering
Only do they fall
in times of dishonesty
or times of treachery
When did it become this way?
In a forgotten past
they fell for scraped knees
and they fell for broken toys
and they fell for innocence
In an unwanted present
they fall for deception
and they fall for insincerity
and they don't fall for innocence lost
In an unforeseeable future
they will fall for remorse
and they will fall for guilt
and they will fall for regret
Why did it become that way?
For now there is no guilt
and remorse couldn't be farther than the stars
So she continues to let them fall
those tiny sliding lies
that no one ever questions
And she knows one day
someone will
and they will ask her
How did you become this way?
Oct 17, 2012
Oct 17, 2012 at 5:12 PM UTC
Allow me to be bold- brave prying eyes and bare all. Allow me to tamper with excommunication- to tempt ostracism- to tease trouble by talking of taboos... speaking of shushed subjects- oh, society's little secrets, the ones we're all willing to share. Allow me to expound on the lessons parents never wanted to teach- the lessons children are so eager to learn. The very act- the very word- that induces giggles, inspires poets, excites lovers, and makes or breaks "true bliss."
"Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, exhibit number one is what the seraphs, the misinformed, simple, noble-winged seraphs, envied. Look at this tangle of thorns." -V.N
*** a word constructed of three of the twenty-six letters that make the English language go round. On their own, quite harmless, but collectively- a jaw-dropping, blush-inspiring, shush-provoking combination. *** the ultimate caricature of love and all that is romantic- oh, just look at this tangle of thorns. Tangled- because we have turned the beauty into a beast- taken "the two will become one"- and rationalized- two will always be two- Not you, me or me, you. No, nothing bad can come of this.
*** used to make lies beautiful and truth obscured. Sold in society- the promoter of skin- condemned in the church- discouraged as sin. All the while, teenagers are toppling around- neck deep in lust- desperate to be loved- fumbling- tumbling into the open arms of the ultimate outlet. *** a shallow solution to a deeper problem- a gift given, unwrapped, re-wrapped, and given again. Allow me to attempt to untangle these thorns- when does making love become wrong?
When it makes heroes into harlots and turns the righteous into romantics- when it complicates the uncomplicated? When it manipulates insincerity to seem sincere- liberates itself from simple mathematics, why, the more the merrier, and forgets three's a crowd? Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, allow me to be ridiculed- expose myself as a hypocrite and define: It is when *** is misconstrued as a mere act of "love" that it becomes a crime.
Aug 1, 2010
Aug 1, 2010 at 3:18 PM UTC
"How can I disappoint you tonight?," masked as,
"Come over."
Scene: a small bed in a quaint room with a jaded girl and her delusions of grandeur.
She wears a mask of rose colored glasses,
and with this mask she pursues finer intentions
with the purest of intentions.
She views request for company as the chance to entice someone to join her tea party,
where she serves optimism with a heavy dose of patience.
"Patience. In Due Time."
The mask causes her to no longer recognize the masks that graze the faces of those in front of her.
What happens when you favor the mask over the suitor?
She's fed lies, she'll go back for seconds,
because their taste on her tongue makes her forget about their stain on her heart.
We all have our masks.
Some of us will wear them day in and day out,
unaware that others might be allergic to their particular brand of insincerity.
Others, like her, will struggle with removing theirs for fear of what lies beneath being exposed.
But if beauty is in the eye of the beholder,
how are we supposed to perceive true beauty if we're looking through a mask, rose colored glasses or not?
She will view things better than they are.
Others will view things worse than they are.
If we can remove the mask,
if we can focus on something other than ourselves,
or if we can stop allowing the world to let us believe we constantly need to give more,
if we can finally see life the true way it's meant to be seen,
we might just allow ourselves
to find what we're looking for.
Jan 23, 2016
Jan 23, 2016 at 4:57 PM UTC
I can't help but doubt you or
Your loyalty
My heart clutched by fear
Insecurely, I worry
that I'm not enough.
Insincerely, you assure me,
No need to think so much
My mind is on fire
The Pressure
is creeping.
Slowly but surely
gripping my throat
It has left me breathless
and blue.
Aug 21, 2012
Aug 21, 2012 at 2:34 AM UTC
There is insincerity in my electric praise,
regardless of response I drip cool pools of soft cloth on floor
and utter abstruse succulent phrases.
Even with all this, I am insipid in lending lip service to ***
I absently inhale acrid smoke because
I never pretended to be a hermetic socialite-
because it is a socially acceptable
form of self hatred.
Obsessive animality has become
disinterested sexuality,
I have done anything
ever asking "what then?" and
everything done:
has me **** in the eyes of men.
Gleaming ideals of girl on girl,
feverish licking,
slick sweat dripping and all this
boredom:
the initiated
subjects of whoredom
come undone with the gripping of slippery moans
and now lay soiled in sheets
where hearts beat fast,
striving hard,
deep in keeping the motions of man.
We are stripping off flakes of soft humanity,
which we feed each other to watch it melt on the tongue.
So very unlike writing,
*** is hard wired,
it needn't be learned-
only practiced with intent for perfection
and when the edges bleed together within the edacious mind,
all is bared
unclothing only sloven swine.
The truth is:
I only deal with shadows and
align them in a malignant play of poetic puppetry.
I outline a silver coated tongue
seen to deliver elaborate loquacious lies,
I **** deep at cultural control
and I huff full lungs of the social soul.
Mar 24, 2011
Mar 24, 2011 at 12:03 AM UTC
Artificial, superficial
Smiles, laughs and riddles.
All riddles.
Anything out of your mouth,
Through your eyes,
Through those hands
Filling me with doubt.
Can I have something good?
Am I allowed to?
This race course that I've jumped into
I've sped up way too fast.
Slow down crash.
Speed up crash.
Artificial, superficial,
Why did I ask you to let down your hair?
I look up and I see someone foreign
Claiming that if I climb
I'd get closer to her?
Right...
Your smile foreboding
Your eyes beady
Open your mouth
Flickering fork so needy
Right..
Artificial,
Insincerity in that 'interested' gaze
Superficial,
Those lips stretched wide
Plastered on your face
It only makes sense that when you laugh
I don't give a sh
Right.
Artificial...
Superficial...
That's all you'll ever seem,
In my eyes.
Sep 24, 2018
Sep 24, 2018 at 11:57 AM UTC
throw fireworks at little brothers,
laugh, until they start crying, then hide
make mom cry, a lot. worry her, a lot.
make everyone who loves you cry, at least twice
run your ******* up a flagpole, steal a flag
smoke cigarettes at school
through bad ***** and insincerity
get drunk, then kiss everybody
borrow people's things
make them regret lending to you
throw up in such a way it'll ruin a party
throw up in someone's bed
leave it for them later
buy cheap drugs, steal cheap clothes,
exploit the good nature of others
spit at someone's feet
start useless arguments,
especially with bigots, especially when drunk,
especially when you need to impress people
get kicked out of something holy and sacred,
in the process, shame your grandparents
flip the bird, yell impolite things and trivia
at friends, strangers, anyone
set a plastic trashcan on fire,
leave it somewhere important
forget about it
pierce your face, more than once
pierce somewhere not on your face
show people you shouldn't
say trite thoughts, dress them up with $10 words
look pedantic, unsmiling, and snooty
put everything off, procrastinate
until it ***** you up, wonder what happened
finally,
stay awake at night, remembering all this,
then pity yourself, you ******* *******
Apr 17, 2013
Apr 17, 2013 at 9:42 PM UTC
i am the sum of my worst parts.
i am best friends with my loathing,
i dress all my nightmares in sheep's clothing.
i tell my mother they're friends of mine,
i tell my mother i am fine.
we were terrible actors but, god, were we good at memorizing the lines.
but we both know that nothing’s worse than insincerity.
i think i was so lost i couldn’t stand being found.
it was all i knew, my old paint under the new.
you know what it’s like,
you get stuck in a sadness so sweet
you almost mistake it for something you deserve.
you become comfortable.
it’s a process, cut my losses
relapsed back into my sadness and all my bad habits,
begging you to lick the wine and water off my lips,
the way you grip my hips,
just press me down into the sheets until i don’t exist.
we wrote an album full anthems and we couldn’t carry a **** tune.
you’re just a big bleeding heart, an open wound of a person
and everybody loves you
and everybody hates you
like the radio hit that made their favorite band big.
so this is for all the times you were told to bite your tongue
but you were so tired of bleeding.
this is for all the times you opened your mouth
but never spoke.
this is for all the times you talked to fill the air
but never really said anything.
you are what you think. you are what you say. you are what you do.
but, maybe most importantly, you are what you don’t do.
because what if icarus had been cautious?
what if icarus had never left the ground?
i guess one way to love somebody is when they're never around,
and i guess there’s people like that;
those who only want to hear songs they’ve already heard.
there’s people like that, those who don’t want to learn anything
that they don’t already know.
there’s people like that, those who don’t like to question things.
science and god sit at the dinner table as lovers.
they say their vows in verse,
in a thousand different languages.
neither of them have the whole story,
but together, i’m told sometimes they make a lot of sense.
science and god sit at the dinner table as equals.
art and wonder and the human spirit are their children.
love may be a myth, but it’s my favorite one.
we do not age at the dinner table
we do not know hate at the dinner table
we spit bullets and grow flowers into vases.
we knock elbows, and argue, and love, and reconcile, and praise.
we spill wine not blood.
we do not know hate at the dinner table.
and i find, at the dinner table, seated
between past and present
between heart-ache and hopefulness
between glory and insignificance
i am not so lonely.
Oct 15, 2015
Oct 15, 2015 at 9:59 PM UTC
these words are not apologetic;
they don't believe in lying
since words are merely tools
to flavor our blatant insincerity
these pens are not for writing;
rather, they are used for dismantling
the nib from the tube of color
to be sliced up into confetti by knives—
where the ink spills like dark blood
these poems are not for reading;
but for recording your feelings in
riddles that no one else but you can
understand, and relate to—
words coded in more words,
or in between lines with the invisible
ink of the mind and memory
these paragraphs are not sarcastic;
more of subtle reminders to you that
perhaps you should have cared
about me a little bit more than the
dust collecting on the top shelves of
your forgotten library,
while your pocket empties itself
on new volumes of books with
repetitive story plots, my own
diminishing in the sea of your curiosity
- - -
Sep 20, 2013
Sep 20, 2013 at 3:48 AM UTC
december is so cold
and his story is untold
so when he lets his heart unfold
it's much too easy
he's nearly blinded
by her beautiful diamonds
they almost remind him
of a lost memory
the sparkle in her eyes
is a mere disguise
he believes all the lies
he falls so quickly
and suddenly
he's yelling save me, save me
i've made a mistake
i was crazy, crazy
and the whole thing was fake
somebody save me, save me
'cause i lost everything
trying to save myself.
april is so blurry
rain day, he's in a hurry
eyes on fire, fueled by fury;
now he can't see
so it's no surprise when
her beautiful diamonds
catch his eye again
and persuade him to be free
but the smile on her face
doesn't have a single trace
of insincerity or disgrace
and he falls so quickly
and suddenly
he's yelling save me, save me
i've made a mistake
i was crazy, crazy
and the whole thing was fake
somebody save me, save me
'cause i lost everything
trying to save myself.
december is so cold
and it's such a pity
that his story was told
because he fell for the beauty
so quickly,
so suddenly,
so quietly.
he can barely say save me, save me
'cause he made too many mistakes
he was crazy, crazy
and every kiss was a fake
he whispers save me, save me
now he's lost everything
trying to save himself;
what a shame.
Sep 2, 2013
Sep 2, 2013 at 9:02 PM UTC