"jointed" poems
I see you, monster...
In your sockets bore dead, dark eyes
They hold the blackest of stares
Nebulous swirling pits of demise
Thin lips would spout the most sibilant of hisses
Every so often would curl into a snarl
Dry and chapped, almost unworthy of kisses
Large, rough snout, jutting out like a crag
You sniff around tirelessly for easy targets
Preying on the unsuspecting minds of those under your flag
Tapering chin, sprouting strands of coarse hair
Unkempt and gritty from your last meal
Decaying teeth, crooked due to little to no care
Your face is cratered; tales of trying adolescent years
Wearing a face only a mother could love
Expressionless but it screams out your fears
Ugly jointed limbs that grew out of sync
Disproportionate, misshapen, grotesque
Little noggin with sparse hair, packed within, a brain that thinks
I hear you, monster...
As you stalk your sleepless nights
Nocturnal ambience be your playground
Lurking in the dark; places with no light
Bulky, heavy feet but deft and silent
Can barely notice when you're up and about
As if cloaked yourself stealthy, with steps ever transient
Respire you do, exhaling breaths so gnarly
Ingesting good air, converting into fervid, loathsome notions
With which you paint a portrait so ghastly
I feel you monster...
Deep within the recesses of my heart
Destroying and distorting all that was pure
Testing my will till I should fall apart
You're but the twisted manifestation of conscience
Feeding on my trials and nurturing them into vile abominations
I despise that of you but I seem to have developed dependence
I see you, monster...
You're horrid and beastly, an embodiment of absolute horror
I await the day that you would finally dissolve
For I am weary of seeing you staring back in the mirror
Sep 18, 2014
Sep 18, 2014 at 9:23 PM UTC
Side by side, their faces blurred,
The earl and countess lie in stone,
Their proper habits vaguely shown
As jointed armour, stiffened pleat,
And that faint hint of the absurd -
The little dogs under their feet.
Such plainness of the pre-baroque
Hardly involves the eye, until
It meets his left-hand gauntlet, still
Clasped empty in the other; and
One sees, with a sharp tender shock,
His hand withdrawn, holding her hand.
They would not think to lie so long.
Such faithfulness in effigy
Was just a detail friends would see:
A sculptor's sweet commissioned grace
Thrown off in helping to prolong
The Latin names around the base.
They would no guess how early in
Their supine stationary voyage
The air would change to soundless damage,
Turn the old tenantry away;
How soon succeeding eyes begin
To look, not read. Rigidly they
Persisted, linked, through lengths and breadths
Of time. Snow fell, undated. Light
Each summer thronged the grass. A bright
Litter of birdcalls strewed the same
Bone-littered ground. And up the paths
The endless altered people came,
Washing at their identity.
Now, helpless in the hollow of
An unarmorial age, a trough
Of smoke in slow suspended skeins
Above their scrap of history,
Only an attitude remains:
Time has transfigures them into
Untruth. The stone fidelity
They hardly meant has come to be
Their final blazon, and to prove
Our almost-instinct almost true:
What will survive of us is love.
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don’t tell me “I love you” ~by Roxanne, for Cyrano~
<>
that’s a verse I’ve heard many too times before,
that’s a curse of low majesty, a quatrain too plain,
if that’s your best sally, retreat, say no more,
too simp verses, or ungolden silences, agents of dissatisfying pain
I need the best of your taste
the finest visions that you eyelids occlude,
make haste for my mouth grows exceedingly
impatient for the other senses to do their tandem wooing
slap only my face with the creature comforts others savor,
words of diamonds and pink pearls mined from your breast,
the bejeweled words that will decorate my evergreen,
that never dies, lest, unless and until,
you want my mortal affection suppressed
give me your linguistic promiscuity, wake me from the stupor
of ordinary, arouse me with thy tongue coiling, a bee sting delivery,
a wet poem that makes all my orifices!|offices weep, your mouth,
my souls recouper,
your wizardry bewitching,
answer my inquiry with unbounded festivity
then and after all, the plain simplicity of an “I love you,”
will be edged with sublimity, my mercies, your mercies
our jointed, sharp pointy, introverting, interlocking,
*our futures becoming
our pasts*
11:07am
19-9-30
<>
https://thenewgroup.org/production/cyrano/?gclid=Cj0KCQjwz8bsBRC6ARIsAEyNnvoENpdnWyqeUEwq0avNStgWCf4CocB1i239c2mHdNSFF8gOlWZtfjsaAls4EALw_wcB
Oct 10, 2019
Oct 10, 2019 at 11:35 AM UTC
I shall never get you put together entirely,
Pieced, glued, and properly jointed.
Mule-bray, pig-grunt and ***** cackles
Proceed from your great lips.
It's worse than a barnyard.
Perhaps you consider yourself an oracle,
Mouthpiece of the dead, or of some god or other.
Thirty years now I have labored
To dredge the silt from your throat.
I am none the wiser.
Scaling little ladders with glue pots and pails of Lysol
I crawl like an ant in mourning
Over the weedy acres of your brow
To mend the immense skull-plates and clear
The bald, white tumuli of your eyes.
A blue sky out of the Oresteia
Arches above us. O father, all by yourself
You are pithy and historical as the Roman Forum.
I open my lunch on a hill of black cypress.
Your fluted bones and acanthine hair are littered
In their old anarchy to the horizon-line.
It would take more than a lightning-stroke
To create such a ruin.
Nights, I squat in the cornucopia
Of your left ear, out of the wind,
Counting the red stars and those of plum-color.
The sun rises under the pillar of your tongue.
My hours are married to shadow.
No longer do I listen for the scrape of a keel
On the blank stones of the landing.
4.5k
I hadn't cried in years.
I was always taught that strength
was not having the courage to let yourself feel but
******* it up, holding it in.
I am sick of "You're going soft on us, honey"
Today I came to understand that
you are completely okay with writing the same poem
over and over again.
This is a metaphor for the way you ****** her in my bed.
This is a metaphor for the night you copy and pasted love letters.
This is a metaphor for what really happened-
I never fall in the same place twice.
Except when I do.
I think the critical difference between the two of us,
critical because there are many differences
but- I think our hamartia, our fatal flaw,
our end scene is this:
if people didn't like my poetry, if nobody listened,
if I walked out on stage and nobody snapped their
fingers, I would still write for just your eyes.
I would still cramp my crooked, birth defect,
quadruple jointed fingers writing to you about the nights
you loved me back,
for a minute there you loved me back.
And you loved 20,000 other people back.
And you loved small towns back and big cities back and the entire west coast
back when you drove through, making temporary homes out of people
who should have been permanent
and I loved you.
And I hadn't cried in years.
Not because I wasn't sad, but because I was taught that showing emotion
was weakness.
So if my father made me memorize the How To's of strength,
if I were going by the book, today I'd be so fragile
you could say hello and I'd shatter so suddenly you'd
forget you were the one that let go.
Sep 18, 2014
Sep 18, 2014 at 9:56 PM UTC
In the castle of my smile
All lovely words are imprisoned in stone
This place I am king that stretches a mile
My tongue its gilded throne
In the castle of my smile,
I spy through its bars of milky white
The silky wonderful love of my life
Walk Eden's paradise of light.
In the castle of my smile,
I weave a golden rope of magic letters,
Gluing jointed lyrics with praise filled ethers
Ignoring the splinters of criticism for better.
My means of escape down the walls to you.
Nov 1, 2018
Nov 1, 2018 at 12:47 PM UTC
The spider Queen, aloofly vain!
She rules a silent ruthless reign,
with black-bead eyes like pearls of rain
that damp the depths of her demesne.
.
.
.
A spider spins, with nimble feet,
a sticky web of grim deceit
that drapes the corners, dark, discreet,
in catacombs of her retreat.
Her jointed legs (in number, eight)
traverse the threads with stilted gait,
but often more she'll lie in wait
within the hub of her estate.
Shy spiders live their lives alone
ensconced within a silky throne;
unless a transient guest comes flown,
their lives bide empty, monotone.
.
.
Well, now and then, a sullen breeze
may twitch the toils, begin to tease –
yet nothing's caught and nothing pleas,
so patience's bid at times like these.
But then again, when stars ignite,
may maunder by a gnat, by night,
be taught a dance, a writhing rite,
within a lace of death, wrapped tight.
Sometimes a spider's in the mood
and waits awhile, whilst being wooed –
and then, to later feed her brood,
the widow slays her mate for food.
In time a spider dies, 'tis true,
bequeathing but a residue
entwined, devoid of retinue,
in fibers decked in silver dew.
.
.
.
One asks "What purpose serves the GNAT –
to feed and make the spider fat?
Well, 'tis perchance just naught but that
within a mindless habitat.
.
.
"Yet, what's the aim?” you may inquire,
“at the heart of MAN's desire.
To which goals should WE aspire
reaching high and reaching higher?"
We've, through the ages, left the mire,
trundling wheels and taming fire,
doing deeds that must inspire,
nursing needy, calming crier, …
Such things as these, most may admire:
- placid dove and war defier
(some are bolder, some are shyer)
- patience (mess-up mollifier);
- humankind (Life's justifier)
- charity (charmed self-denier)
- tolerance (proud pacifier )
- love of Life (folk unifier).
What more could we, as flesh, require?
Needless kneeling neath the spire?
Childish chanting in the choir?
Preaching hell's impending pyre?
No, Death's the only rectifier,
comes the instant we expire,
nothing after, sentience prior.
So, treasure Life and don't deny Her.
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 1:29 PM UTC
She might laugh if she read this
at the flat little version of her
that lives in my mind.
She may laugh
at my comparison of her
to a hideous sea spider
but hear me out
it could be touching.
David Foster Wallace wrote:
*“Since pain is a totally subjective mental experience
we do not have direct access
to anyone or anything’s pain but our own;
and even just the principles
by which we can infer that others experience pain
and have a legitimate interest in not feeling pain
involve ******** philosophy—
metaphysics, epistemology, value theory, ethics.”
*"[Lobsters] do have an exquisite tactile sense,
one facilitated by hundreds of thousands of tiny hairs
that protrude through their carapace.
Although encased
in what seems a solid, impenetrable armour,
the lobster can receive stimuli and impressions from without
as readily as if it possessed a soft and delicate skin.”*
and so
“We lift lobsters out of the bag
or whatever retail container they came home in
…whereupon some uncomfortable things start to happen.
However stuporous the lobster is from the trip home, for instance,
it tends to come alarmingly to life when placed in boiling water."*
As much as I cannot comprehend the pain
of the exquisitely tactile lobster
in a *** of boiling water,
I wonder if I could
walk a mile in a lobster’s 8 minuscule shoes
and I wonder
what it might mean or not mean to her
with her armoured yet acute exoskeleton
to be back at home with her father.
They might try to butter you up
or snap elastic bands
around your oversized claws
and use a wooden spoon
to try and nudge your thrashing, clinging arms
back into the ***
but remember:
lobsters can live to be over 100 years old
and grow to over 20 pounds in size
which is very large for an aquatic insect
and remember that they are marine crustaceans of the family Homaridae, characterized by five pairs of jointed legs, the first pair terminating in large pincerish claws.
And DFW famously said,
“Everything I’ve ever let go of has claw marks on it.”
and he's not a lobster either
Apr 28, 2015
Apr 28, 2015 at 6:18 PM UTC
I was once a shape...
Equally jointed,
at four opposite points.
I was a square...
I never knew the way of the world.
Never open to new experiences,
even when they presented themselves bare...
Even when the shrouds of uncertainty
were wiped away leaving the future unfurled.
I grew up...
Huddled under the roof set above me,
with four walls that kept me safe and sheltered.
That was the entire universe.
That was all I saw...
Views so narrow and uneventful...
A life so bland with the fun bits all sheared.
Never brought up to question...
Never given the time and space to think.
There was always a yardstick upon which I was measured.
The sea of expectations was vast but shallow...
So I could wade forever,
but never sink.
I was once a shape...
No one then expected me to be other than a square.
I had everything I needed,
all within the confines of imposing cordons and tapes.
But the world would constantly rap on the windows.
Peddling its fantastical ware.
It would entice with its secrets and mysteries.
Boasting the wonderful stories it'd like to share.
Jan 18, 2016
Jan 18, 2016 at 4:49 AM UTC
I
All all and all the dry worlds lever,
Stage of the ice, the solid ocean,
All from the oil, the pound of lava.
City of spring, the governed flower,
Turns in the earth that turns the ashen
Towns around on a wheel of fire.
How now my flesh, my naked fellow,
Dug of the sea, the glanded morrow,
Worm in the scalp, the staked and fallow.
All all and all, the corpse's lover,
Skinny as sin, the foaming marrow,
All of the flesh, the dry worlds lever.
II
Fear not the waking world, my mortal,
Fear not the flat, synthetic blood,
Nor the heart in the ribbing metal.
Fear not the tread, the seeded milling,
The trigger and scythe, the bridal blade,
Nor the flint in the lover's mauling.
Man of my flesh, the jawbone riven,
Know now the flesh's lock and vice,
And the cage for the scythe-eyed raver.
Know, O my bone, the jointed lever,
Fear not the screws that turn the voice,
And the face to the driven lover.
III
All all and all the dry worlds couple,
Ghost with her ghost, contagious man
With the womb of his shapeless people.
All that shapes from the caul and suckle,
Stroke of mechanical flesh on mine,
Square in these worlds the mortal circle.
Flower, flower the people's fusion,
O light in zenith, the coupled bud,
And the flame in the flesh's vision.
Out of the sea, the drive of oil,
Socket and grave, the brassy blood,
Flower, flower, all all and all.
2.7k
Sweat brow perculates,
unmastered tongue erased all evidence,
moist palms dripping anxious thoughts.
pursed lips crackled and dry
flow words like rapids,
blink open eyes crusted by innocence
each scar buried in rock,
fracture and fault.
heart uplifted bent in regrets,
memories unconformities,
missing from sight.
flash to love, metamorphosed in time
growing, blending to crystals born.
layered finely touched in pain,
like grains lithify
ossify,
remain untouched, preserved
in stone jointed connections made.
meandering tears entrenched down-cutting
cheeks, bone exposed to roots.
once deposited feeling, now eroded to nothing,
blown by winds unforgiving
these days pass like eons.
Jun 15, 2013
Jun 15, 2013 at 4:13 AM UTC
There was a Double Rainbow
in the sky, over my house today,
Any special meaning there you say?
Double Luck, Double Trouble,
Double Dip, Double Bubble,
Double Up, Double Down,
Double Dutch, Double Duty,
Double Play, Double Header,
Double Cross, Double Jeopardy,
Double Negative, Double Genitive,
Double Dealings, Double Whammy.
Double Jointed, Double Hung,
Double Pleasure, Double Fun.
I'm quite sure I could go on like this,
Beyond the ordinary, If only I had
my copy of Mister Webster's Dictionary.
Working this over in my mind,
running it up and running it over.
The best conclusion I can reach,
Two stripe rainbows are nothing more,
than what you see and what you think.
A pretty painting in the sky, and hence
Of no other particular consequence.
Aug 19, 2013
Aug 19, 2013 at 2:17 PM UTC
The Fox sisters of Rochester
lived in a haunted house.
A spirit there was stirring
That was probably not a mouse.
Spirits rapped upon the walls
and on the window panes.
The sisters Fox would rap right back
according to their claims.
The Foxes were sensations,
The Belles of Halloween
Their Séances well attended
By the credulous, T’would seem.
Spirit fever gripped the land
With rapping on a table
(Maggie Fox was double jointed
And the whole thing was a fable.)
It’s hard to sell your real estate
when it’s a haunted home.
But when spooks rap, rap right back
You’ll never be alone.
Oct 16, 2013
Oct 16, 2013 at 10:01 PM UTC
Rough tactile callouses.
Jointed mischief collaborators.
Twisted knuckly punishers.
Wrinkled hills and valleys.
Capability embodied.
Sensuality expressed.
Love experienced.
Life recorded.
Dancing Phalanges.
Jun 17, 2014
Jun 17, 2014 at 12:46 AM UTC
*“Since pain is a totally subjective mental experience"
"we do not have direct access"
"to anyone or anything’s pain"
"but our own;"
"and even just the principles"
"by which we can infer"
"that others experience pain"
"and have a legitimate interest in not feeling pain"
"involve ******** philosophy—"
"metaphysics, epistemology, value theory, ethics.”*
- From Consider the Lobster by David Foster Wallace
David I've considered it and
I think she might laugh if she read
that a version of her
briny and spined
pint sized
now resides in the depths of my mind,
She might laugh
at my comparison of her
to a hideous sea spider
but it’s because, as you say,
one can neither comprehend the pain
of an exquisitely tactile lobster in a *** of boiling water,
nor walk a mile in it's eight lilliputian shoes
So I am left to wonder
what it might mean or not mean to her
in her armoured yet acute exoskeleton
to have quit school and
be back to her fathers house
on Prince Edward Island.
and what I'd want to tell her is:
They might try to butter you up,
bridle your anger with blue rubber bands,
Use their wooden spoons
to nudge your thrashing, clinging arms
back into the ***
but as we know,
lobsters can live to be over one hundred years old
and grow to be over twenty pounds in size
which is very large for an aquatic insect
and they are marine crustaceans of the family Homaridae,
characterized by five pairs of jointed legs,
the first pair terminating in large pincerish claws
I know she knows how to use them.
Which reminds me of something else you said:
"Everything I've ever let go of has claw marks on it."
A feeling I can understand
Though I'm no more lobster
than she
Sep 24, 2015
Sep 24, 2015 at 10:46 PM UTC
~for you~
me you and this here
writ somewhat clothed
pretty **** imaginative
words, six-pack abs,
sheathed in black lace thigh highs,
a verbal escapade to reality
lick the screen
dare...
lick yourself,
dare...
only fair,
words so fluid, so sensual,
when shared...
best, stupendous
commemorative
come to my bed,
come inside my tablet
thrive on pleasured kisses,
exchange of the essentials
bean~genes of threeselfs blended
what glory glorious
that moment,
can relive it,
with eyes contacted ..
where to here now hereafter,
when to here, poem return come once more
knowing we have jointed,
acknowledging the creation of a
co-memorizing-tionary diction,
recycling this one poem,
our commemoration coin
that only goes up in value
I love you...
Jan 17, 2015
Jan 17, 2015 at 9:44 AM UTC
Since they cut
my long heavy
navel string
they too
cut the feeling
of love.
Attachment
was never present
in the same
jointed way
that I once
felt thoroughly.
Then came
one who too
had a
broken heart
who's navel
was fully hallow.
One who
would use the
navel string
to wrap it
around my neck
till I choked.
I realised
then
that
you made me scared of the word,
love,
because you used it in the wrong way.
Jun 22, 2018
Jun 22, 2018 at 4:00 PM UTC
I sit in a forest, with my back against a large oak,
and listen. Among rustling leaves and
whining cicadas I hear something else.
Something larger.
It's moving through the forest on jointed legs,
snapping the branches of century old trees.
An insect the size of a castle. It lets out a cry.
Sounds like a thousand year old whale's
death rattle. The cicadas stop whining and I
shudder.
It's heading to the lake to breed,
or to die. Their kind begins and ends in water.
Very morbid creatures, they are.
I can feel its steps shake the earth as it comes
closer and then I see it. Ten long, jointed legs
support the bulk of the thing. It towers over me,
silver. Its shell is a knight's armour and its red
eyes are the devil's. I stand up in awe of the
colossal bug as it lumbers past me, blocking the sun
and casting me in shadow for a while.
I light a cigarette and listen to it move through the forest.
Eventually, I can't hear it anymore and the cicadas
start to whine again.
Jun 15, 2015
Jun 15, 2015 at 7:55 PM UTC
Each cold wave was starting to slap
me in the face and the grayness of morning
wasn’t lifting as the sun rose. Goosebumps
had made my legs slim sharks, heavy and rough,
so I swam to shore spitting out icy water.
I was thinking about coffee,
maybe crawling into my sleeping bag
and listening to loons’ far-off howls
until breakfast, and I reached the splintery dock
when I choked –
tried to struggle backward, without any splash
which might wash her in with me.
Dock spiders swim. Did you know?
They fasten long ropes of silk and dive
for their prey, something big since no horsefly
sustains a spider the size of a mouse.
This one was monstrous, motionless,
spiky black legs jointed white at her knees,
face-level to my wet bobbing head. She gripped
an egg sac, papery and white, marble-sized.
It held hundreds of tiny hers. It looked heavy.
I had come to her panting but now the water
or inertia maybe pushed my face close
to that enormous silent mother so I fought harder
to stay away, though if the lake had been still
I might have treaded at a distance, stared hard,
dared her to scuttle and disappear in the cracks
in the plywood-patched dock with its rotting ladder
and a dozen more spiders, probably,
white sacs strapped firmly to their bellies.
I flopped like I’d hooked a lip, gasping, desperate
for rough open water where depth
would deter any diving hairy creature.
Somehow I struggled to remoter shoreline
where I slid over boulders’ upholstery of algae,
shivering, legs frog-splayed, stringent and numb.
I never felt it when I scratched my legs crashing
through buckthorn, the way to the cabin, though I saw
the lines later when I put on soft clothing
in a warm inside corner where spiders are smaller
and at least have the kindness
to keep out of sight.
Jan 12, 2010
Jan 12, 2010 at 6:44 AM UTC
freckle-faced
jug-eared
left-handed
skinny as a fungo bat
loose-jointed
like a string-puppet
in sports
not great but
scrappy and fun
long distance runner
played hard
no grudges
nobody’s idea of handsome
voice like a scratchy record
married straight out of high school
drafted
101st Airborne
everybody had a dumb nickname
Denny, Little Old Lady
nobody remembers why
Thua Thien, South Vietnam
hit by an RPG
August 5, 1968
smithereens in a body bag
days later, a letter
informs
he’s a daddy
Denny, if you’d lived sixteen more days
you could’ve legally bought beer
I’m sixty-seven years old
you’re forever
almost twenty-one
Memorial Day 2015
We've lost them by the thousands.
We grieve them one by one.
May 24, 2015
May 24, 2015 at 2:42 PM UTC
ain't no disability, i'm a superhero
- kanye west
/
who i am
is a complicated shit-show of
mental illnesses, diagnosed
and medicated to make me able.
according to the kids at school,
i will put you in a chokehold for flexing your double-
jointed finger.
/
autism is strange,
because words hurt more
than you could image.
a few words are no longer spoken
in our household.
freak is one of them.
/
have you ever feared someone
because of rumors?
if you have, then i announce you as an enemy,
so let's duel with choppy movements
and irrational fingers.
/
school is out,
and i'm thinking that
who i am
is a delicate shit-show of
who i want to be
Jun 14, 2018
Jun 14, 2018 at 7:27 PM UTC
This dissertation, written by a double-jointed stunt-double
A sentient being
It must take one to know one
Because he found me immediately
We counted the tally marks
Crushed cornflakes on a Kashmir carpet
We met a paraplegic paralegal
Whose views we're, for lack of a better word "perpendicular"
We we're entranced by him
He spoke of integrity and the dangers of toxic relationships
And how the service of justice is only so-so
He was enmeshed by contractual obligations and deadlines
He left us with two last pieces of advice
"Talk to yourself often, for you'll surely know best for yourself"
"Forgive yourself, for forgiveness proves strength and admitting your wrongs shows humility"
The stunt-double wrote his paper on this
And I wrote this poem
This occurrence so rarefied yet malleable
-Tommy Johnson
Dec 21, 2014
Dec 21, 2014 at 8:20 PM UTC
There there my dear, it's only a scratch, another one for the collection.
Antiseptic wipe; Dettol 99.9% by the way.
Indignancy felt but ushered into a comfortable seat with nice back support and leather upholstery.
Tomato Ketchup.
"This is just wrong, this will not stand!!" A deafening barely audible roar.
Look there is a fly banging its head against a glass window. He repeats the action over and over.
A spark flies and it blinds. Sweet immersion. Embrace. Warmth. Comfort.
A bubble. Suspension. The gaze into a lover's eyes....post ****** of course!
Cinema ticket stubs, bloated belly, extra butter. The cold walk home.
Sorry, I have none on me or I left mine inside or look away.
Discrepency and some thing dis jointed. Lack of understanding. Inward spirals.
HellNoweWontgO, away they went in disgruntled silence. Not a stain nor a mark on the beautiful tree lined streets.
Mar 22, 2012
Mar 22, 2012 at 11:00 AM UTC
They drink to forget their problems
I smoke a joint
They cry and move on when their hearts are broken
I stay itching for my fixture when my joints are broken
If ever their joints get broken they wouldn't be able to live
Neither would I and that's one thing we have in common
With these joints you made feel like I can move mountains
With this knee joint in the future I would kneel and ask you to marry me
But the joy in my joints is no more
The red blood cells die in vein
The cells lose shape of what was once a circle
And what was joined in life I ask if only it can be broken as death do us apart
But now for now
Reality hits me in the eyes and gives back the sight once robbed
So just like any human being
I can't live with broken joints
And just like any stoner
I can't get high on these broken joints
I get high with friends
I get high alone
But getting high with you is a memory I wish to relive
I embrace tightly every thought of you
It is the closest I can be to you lately
And with every pull I take from each joint
I pray that God may pull you right back into my arms
Don't give up on me.... Don't give up on us
Runaway
But I broke my leg once yet today I'm able to chase after you
I'm inlove with you
I ask you this, why can't we
Be joints joined
To experience the joy in joined joints
And be joined joints jointed joyfully?
Jan 27, 2015
Jan 27, 2015 at 6:09 AM UTC