"sag" poems
What would You do when you can't have someone you want?
Would you
lift a finger and whisk it like a wand
wishing everything would fall in place
the way you'd want it to
in a tick of the clock ,
or,
would you struggle with your brain
between finding a solution
and living inside your head, dreaming of
perfection?
ME
I would get up,
trek to a forest with my trusty machete
and hack away at the thickest bushes I could find.
I'd hack away, hack away,
and ignore the sag from my arms, the stress on my back,
the sweat pouring down my face like water off a cliff,
the unsteady footing caused by wet mud and unsteady, unsure legs.
I would keep hacking until I reach the end of my arduous quest,
where I would come upon a clearing--
A clearing with an aisle made of rose petals
that lead into the center,
surrounded by white chairs and sunflowers.
And Someone would be there,
in a white dress and veil, waiting for me.
May 17, 2015
May 17, 2015 at 4:50 AM UTC
i love you this morning
it's a come home safe morning
fog on the road
& no seatbelt kind of morning
the sun is over easy
& nothing's on fire
there's punctuation
where i don't want it
and extra love
in the glovebox of my car
been thinking about being honest
how these poems are all me
but they tell the story
how someone else
might believe it happened
within reasonable doubt
no copy & pasted love letters
no 'who ever says hello first gets my attention for the day'
try a little tenderness
in my ears and today
there are instruments
in the back of my head
i think you love me
because i'm sunburned
felt it in a 'come hell or high water' kinda way, that 'touched from far away' kinda way that 'if i touch this piano one more time one of us is going to break' kinda way
and i drove over 17 bridges yesterday and today i'll do it again
and i think nobody gets
what that means except maybe you
i just tell them i love the scenery
that somebody must've made
these trees blush just for me
you know how i love
to change the subject
i bet they'd love the view
i bet you would too
and all these metaphors
for other things are beside the point
this is a metaphor
for why i don't wear my seatbelt
a metaphor for why whiskey
knows me better than you
could ever try to
all the buildings seemed to sag yesterday and all the stars
are doing that cliche thing
where they talk
quiet jet noise
& some lumbering giant
made everything shake
not those hand metaphors
not another one of those
& keep the sea to yourself
i think it was a train
it's sound hugged the embankment
for a moment
and then trailed off into nowhere
and that's kind of like me
how there's a town called 'rescue'
close to my home &
it's no coincidence
that i've never been there
Sep 28, 2014
Sep 28, 2014 at 5:53 PM UTC
writhe and
gape of tortured
perspective
rasp and graze of splintered
normality
crackle and
sag
of planes clamors of
collision
collapse As
peacefully,
lifted
into the awful beauty
of sunset
the young city
putting off dimension with a blush
enters
the becoming garden of her agony
10.9k
You lived alone in the solititude
Of pure hundred years in Colombia
Roaming in Amacondo with a Spanish tongue
Carrying the bones of your grandmother in a sisal sag
On your poverty written Colombian back,
Gadabouting to make love in times of cholera,
On none other than your bitter-sweet memories
Of your melancholic ***** the daughter of Castro,
Your cowardice made you to fear your momentous life
In this glorious and poetic time of April 2014,
Only to succumb to untimely black death
That similarly dimunitized your cultural ancestor;
Miguel de Cervantes, a quixotic Spaniard,
You were to write to the colonel for your life,
Before eating the cockerel you had ear-marked
For Olympic cockfight, the hope of the oppressed,
Come back from death, you dear Marquez
To tell me more stories fanaticism to surrealism,
From Tarzanic Africa the fabulous land
An avatar of evil gods that are impish propre
Only Vitian Naipaul and Salman Rushdie are not enough,
For both of them are so naïve to tell the African stories,
I will miss you a lot the rest of my life, my dear Garbo,
But I will ever carry your living soul, my dear Garcia,
Soul of your literature and poetry in a Maasai kioondo
On my broad African shoulders during my journey of art,
When coming to America to look for your culture
That gave you versatile tongue and quill of a pen,
Both I will take as your memento and crystallize them
Into my future thespic umbrella of orature and literature.
Apr 20, 2014
Apr 20, 2014 at 4:57 AM UTC
I'm the epitome of unattractive
The definition of ugly
I have a round stomach
My legs touch
My **** sag
My hair is thin and frail
My teeth aren't pearly white
I'm pale and my eyes are shallow
Brown with no depth or color
*** is an impossible task
When there is so much fat
Separating my body from the other
*** is an impossible task
When I'm only thinking about my body
Rather than feeling the passion and heat
*** is an impossible task
When I won't allow anybody to see me
A terribly ugly body resides
Underneath the loose jeans
And oversized shirts
I'm the epitome of unattractive
I'm more than just ugly
I'm more than just fat
I'm morbidly obese
I'm disgustingly put together
Nobody could want me
There is no question
Only an answer
The answer is no
No, I am not wanted
No, I am not desired
No, I am not beautiful
No, I will never be ****
I'm the epitome of unattractive
May 25, 2014
May 25, 2014 at 1:57 PM UTC
I bet you think all ****** don't read.
I bet you think all ****** smoke ****
I bet you think all ****** are the same.
I bet you think all ****** are the blame.
I bet you think ****** don't know nothing about the law.
I bet you think all ****** don't know nothing at all.
I bet you think all ****** are not smart.
I bet you think all ****** don't even care about art.
I bet you think all ****** are from the streets.
I bet you think, oh **** this poem is getting really deep.
I bet you think all ****** carry a heat.
I bet you think all ****** are dead beats.
I bet you think ****** are thugs.
I bet you think all ****** sell drugs.
I bet think all ****** are classless with statuses of madness
I bet you think all ****** are cashless.
I bet you think all ****** are in the penitentiary.
I bet you think all ****** are cemetery.
I bet you think all ****** rap or trap.
I bet you think all ****** sag their pants with two rags and a stockin' cap.
I bet you think all ****** are guilty.
I bet you think all ****** are filthy.
I bet you think all ****** rob.
I bet you think all ****** don't have a job.
I bet you think all ****** don't go to college.
I bet you think all ****** are out here wylin.
I bet you think all ****** are like Christopher Wallace.
I bet you think all ****** will grab and ****** you up for your wallet.
Some say a prophet, nah
I just see it how they call it.
Every line is on hydraulics.
Every time I rhyme, every word becomes solid.
Mar 12, 2016
Mar 12, 2016 at 10:55 PM UTC
I'm creating a Lego alter-ego
Called Scarlet.
Her skin is flawless
Her face a fixed fierce determined smile
Her drawn on ******* will never sag
And she never has a hair out of place.
She has a pet monkey by her side
Poached from my brothers 1989 pirate set
After she duelled with Pegleg Pete
And made him walk the plastic plank.
She has lego lovers in high places
Batman has given her the code to his 6860 set batcave
And the white Knight from castle set 70404
Has lent her his trusty steed
And he drank from her cup.
She is fearless and has an interchangeable
Wipe clean wardrobe
She can be whatever she wants
She is **** yet robust
When placed on a high shelf
She may gather dust
But she is always ready
For fun and adventure
And she will never age or rust.
Mar 10, 2014
Mar 10, 2014 at 8:18 PM UTC
Opgedra aan ‘n kind wat gebliksem moet word.
Deur: Desperaatheid en vrees
Jy klim in en uit die ***** van bestaan,
beide die rede vir liefde en
die kind wat sy baar.
Jy is ‘n drievoud van godelike hervertellings
, want wie kan regtig liefde
in ‘n enkel sin verhaal?
Geminag , die seun van liefde en haat
- jou einste bestaan ,van die vroegste
paradoksale meesterstukke.
Verewig , verewig tot ‘n kind
tussen die Groottes wat
blindlings onder jou boogpunt swik.
Vir elke nasie ‘n ander droom
Vir elke geloof ‘n ander naam en
Vir elke mens ‘n ander god.
Amor , oh Amor!
Die sinnebeeld van liefde
wat die mendsom verbly
, maar Eros jou ramkat
jou hupse hygelbek!
Jou erotiese aanraak!
(die begeer ek)
En ek?
Met my koker van lig en van goud,
wat hulde blyk en bou en bring
maar bestorwe le voor my Laurel
oor ‘n lood-stomp pylpunt vir haar ‘n treuerlied sing!
Amor, Amor word wakker!
My son le liefdeloos in my bros hart
, wat instaan teen logika
– sterk op die oorlogspad!
Jy wat na my heuning reik
-met honger hande vieslik gryp
en ek wat jou met angel steek
in desperaatheid jou nat vel breek…
“Oh moeder”, roep die wetter na bo
vir die planete om aan te ****
“Oh moeder, Oh liefde “ ,spat die sot se treur,
“ *** kan so bietjie , so klein – so seer!”
En die heumel druis soos die moeder lag
haar humor eg , maar haar woorde sag:
“ My naakseun, my hinksperd
My fallus met vlerke!
Jy ,nog ‘n roosknop.
gaan ook so te werke!
Aanvaar die poëtiese justitie
Stil nou liefstetjie
Lamtietie Damtietie …”
Amor, Amor!
Weerstaan tog skoonheid se wieggelied
en wees my genadig!
Begunstig my ten einde laaste
, selfs vader tyd is verveeld
met die son se enkelpad!
*** lank nog wil jy sluimer?
Amor, Amor!
Tel weer op jou leisels
en bring liefde op die wind
my wereld lê in afwagting
vir die dolfyn en sy kind!
Wees my genadig, Amor!
Deurboor my leemte met goud,
,want die bringer van lig is slapeloos
en my hart is droewig en koud.
Oh Amor, Amor!
Ek weet jys nog jonk,
maar *** speel jy dollos met lewe se vonk…
Amor, Amor!
Word wakker!
Amor…
Dec 22, 2014
Dec 22, 2014 at 2:56 AM UTC
Sag my corpse
in 32 degree weather
through the city of God
where paraplegics dream of running.
“Oh Rhodesian mercenary,”
humble my soul again
like in C(hi)(ca)ongo.
But remember
The revolution starts
on my mama’s bed
at half past six.
So excuse me while I smoke my drink like a Brooklyn Leftist from the 40’s tramples
burning cigarettes on cold pavements where codeine and Sprite
make any Tuesday fabulous because we already suffered from (and for) the goods of mankind.
But before you read me the history of Hatchepsut;
I learned the art of man within the confines of FCC regulations after my ‘Pa threw ******* out the window and made life in the cell not mundane by telephoning philosophical-entendres
that tomorrow never happened.
He too was from the blood of the ancestors whose bodies were charred on as goods—
whose children now char their bodies with the goods of the goddess of Victory—
the official trademark for the lost Exodus—the blood and blue moribund—
sagging pyrrhic victories in 32 degree weather as homage to their charred ghost (fore)fathers
who preyed to the city of God for bread
Jun 10, 2013
Jun 10, 2013 at 8:35 PM UTC
Do you know the meaning of "stop and frisk"?
I'm sorry black brother, you do.
Have you ever had to change your voice in order to get a job?
I'm sorry black sister, you have.
Have you ever had to remove your hijab because you needed to take a flight?
I'm sorry brown girl, you have.
Has anyone ever insisted you have extensive knowledge on every school subject?
I'm sorry yellow friend, someone has.
Have you ever been told to go back to your country, despite the fact that you're already there?
I'm sorry red man, you have.
Have you ever been called and illegal immigrant, but you were born in the u.s?
I'm sorry Latino friend, you have.
Have you ever been told that racism doesn't exist and, by someone with pale skin?
I know I have.
So this is to the ones who have been told that they "aren't black enough" because they use proper grammar and their pants don't sag.
The brown boys with beards that get called "towel heads"
To the Asian kids that are just as smart as the next guy.
To the native Americans that still get called Indians.
To the brown girls that get told that they don't have to wear their scarves because "we're in America"
Jul 9, 2015
Jul 9, 2015 at 10:07 AM UTC
Whispering to each handhold, "I'll be back,"
I go up the cliff in the dark. One place
I loosen a rock and listen a long time
till it hits, faint in the gulf, but the rush
of the torrent almost drowns it out, and the wind --
I almost forgot the wind: it tears at your side
or it waits and then buffets; you sag outward...
I remember they said it would be hard. I scramble
by luck into a little pocket out of
the wind and begin to beat on the stones
with my scratched numb hands, rocking back and forth
in silent laughter there in the dark--
"Made it again!" Oh how I love this climb!
-- the whispering to the stones, the drag, the weight
as your muscles crack and ease on, working
right. They are back there, discontent,
waiting to be driven forth. I pound
on the earth, riding the earth past the stars:
"Made it again! Made it again!"
4.4k
It's hard to fall in love again
Because after all that I've been through
I very strongly believe that the only ones who can ever truly love you back
Are your parents and your dog
It's hard to fall in love again
Because I was born and brought up in a culture which said that all that matters is the outside
And the inside can just go **** off
It's hard to fall in love again
Because it is shown that being fair is the only way you can be lovely
That all matrimonials ever wanted was a slim and b'ful lady
If this was an MCQ, I'll be the none of these
It's hard to fall in love again
Because I'm scared all men just want the body with curves and face like an angel
That the only things that should be big are your **** and your ***
Because who gives a **** about a big heart
It's hard to fall in love again
Because the words that he said in the past still haunt me, telling me that I'm not good enough
Pretty enough, **** enough, anything enough to be loved
It's hard to fall in love again
Because eventhough I read quotes on how beauty comes from within, it's proved wrong with every single encounter
Which leads to be believe that all that movies and books ever taught us about romance is absolute ********
That the only reason Jack ever loved Rose was because, well, she was ******* hot
It's hard to fall in love again
Because people don't see that you're born with the skin but it takes effort to build the soul
Because the skin will form wrinkles and sag with time
But the soul and the mind won't
It's hard to fall in love again
Because I don't want to add more to my list of insecurities and brokenness which scar me forever
Because I don't want to dive down and down and down into my worn out self esteem
It's so ******* hard to fall in love again
So I laugh it off and joke around
But everytime I see you
I really, really want to fall in love again
But I'm scared that you'll do the same and break whatever is left of me
That you'll turn me inside out and rub my imperfections till they burn
That you'll laugh with your friends and say
Where did that ***** even gather the guts from to come up to me and say, "Hey man, I like you"
Like that's the worst thing anyone could ever say to you?
They say
Love is a drug
But I think I'm in rehab
They say
Don't be cynical about love because in the face of all aridity and disenchantment
It is as perennial as the grass
But I think I'm better off in a barren land
A place that can accept me for who I am
So the next time you ask,
"Are you dating someone?"
And I reply with a snort and say, "Huh, look at me. No one would want to be with me."
And you say, "No, looks don't matter and the personality-"
I'll punch you in the ******* face
Because to hell with all your crap
You won't want to be me even for a single day
You won't want to be the ugly girl standing in the corner of the hallway
Oct 15, 2017
Oct 15, 2017 at 7:03 AM UTC
Roses are red
Nuts are brown
Skirts go up
Pants go down
Body to body Skin to skin
When its stiff
Stick it in
The Longer its in
The Stronger it gets
It goes in dry And comes out wet
It comes out dripping And starts to sag
Its not what you think......
Its a Teabag
Unknown author, gives me the chucklers
Sep 27, 2015
Sep 27, 2015 at 4:27 PM UTC
You are a sunflower
Stand tall
Let your limbs reach down to the earth
Feel grounded
Feel happiness
Feel peace
You are bright colours
Greens and yellows
Against blue backdrop skies
Feel proud
I am a sunflower
Whose colours have faded
My limbs droop and sag
Feel uprooted
Feel anger
Feel war
I am dull colours
Blacks and whites
Against grey backdrop skies
Feel defeated
Feb 7, 2019
Feb 7, 2019 at 5:22 AM UTC
Addict.
electrifying
steel to skin, metal caress
most intimate touch
intoxicating
pleasure and pain mixing bold
sketching hearts on sleeves
exhibitionist
walking canvas, ****** art
permanent war paint
*******
unhireable
regrettable decisions
just wait till you sag
appropriation
tribal skull, rose indian
meaningless symbols
rebellious act
futureless punk ***** loser
nine to five. conform.
Nov 19, 2014
Nov 19, 2014 at 2:54 AM UTC
Becoming... hmmm...
what am I... becoming...
is this the enlightenment
of my trip? hmm...
journeying through the seasons
of inner time and place...
therein which lies... a space....
not that sort.... not the sort of the
spicky icky spacky... space...
it's the... hmmm... sleepy space...
I sit and wonder... this place is where I... ponder...
fabric... the fabric of this life...
I AM FLOATING INTO THIS CHAIR
CONCEPT BANDS
CONCEPT ALBUMS
THAT'S WHAT I WANT TO SEE I AM JUST LIKE TIMOTHY LEARY
... but that... that is only a character.. the outlook I assume in..certain moods...
that state of worry... that's what I mean.
I am the wind
the sea
...
speak friend,
enter...
speak...
speak to me.
'I see we meet again... hmmmm...'
The music keeps changing my moods, you see...
Subconscious... I must be more mindful...
'Increase mindfulness'
I must bring the feelings... out
don't shove them away...
don't shove me away...
on this normal
squashy day
Love your dark shadow love the wolves
streams of consciousness I must cut up all of these streams
I worry too much about the future... am I crazy? or just afraid of being...
telepathy
Here's this concept that I have that represents all of these feelings that I have that I tell
to you and you receive as whatever feelings you associate with said concept
and hope they match up
I only write when I have something to preach... a sermon, you see..
yet I write every day...
to preach a sermon to me
'Does it make me bad?' this way I am?
does it make you.. mad?
mushy swampy bog filled mushrooms
I sag into the soppy plants in me
this world is my swamp
and this swamp is me
into the swampy swamp I romp
All day I ravage roam
I stomp
jive my vibe...
Exotic exodus execution
into the deep reeds
paddling the little cellophane canoe
Must... move...
Must... go...
Jan 13, 2014
Jan 13, 2014 at 1:21 PM UTC
First, I spotted the gaggle sagging innocently enough,
One might say blissfully reflected in the laptop screen.
Then out of nowhere came the phrase, "whodunit?”
And from the hanging sag, a sly, silky, voice whispered,
"Ahhh, don't stop before the good part."
Clearly a few clues were left behind, wispy hair strands,
Scattered age spots, skin tags, a few moles, posed upon a
Pale listless, crinkly, lightly pimpled, surface, and from a
Wrinkly, shallow crevasse a voice teased,
"Ahhh, don't stop before the good part."
Totally hooked, curiosity piqued, southward I spied,
A once upon a time perky, treasure chest, half hidden,
Now two solemn, empty grain sacks laid east to west,
And close to death but not quite, lazily they muttered,
"Ahhh, don't stop before the good part."
The final chapter, an ancient, untold mystery solved,
No crime, no villain, nothing stolen, only flesh alchemy,
Where a plateau of supple, touchable, skin once resided,
A lumpy, bumpy, flabby flesh pillow lolled, and it murmured,
“Ahhh, Boston cream pie, a quick nap, that's the ticket."
Apr 13, 2014
Apr 13, 2014 at 5:45 PM UTC
We were on a 2nd floor garden terrace. The three-quarter moon was doing its best to set a romantic, gin-mood, pouring a soft pastel-blue on the world, that softened hard edges.
A cool breeze wafted jasmine scents from a nearby tea-olive tree. We were alone, the only sounds were far off footsteps and my pounding heart. Wasn’t this romantic?
Fueled twice by desire I had dressed carefully and modestly, with just a subtle, but fancy, hint of sluttiness. My costume, carefully vetted by a company of five, calculating, non-virgins, was designed to be both alluring and as abstruse as Kleenex. I was a doll dressed, painted and scented to ****** Wasn’t I romantic?
We’d never kissed before, and I wanted him to kiss me with an almost moaning force of will. I brushed my skirt down and checked that my hair was in place with quick, fleeting hand motions that could have been butterflies in the reflected light.
We were sitting close together, I could feel his warmth, but nothing was happening and then, as nothing continued to happen, I began to fret, to sag, what was the glitch? Maybe..
I felt a warmth, his breath, I looked up and he kissed me, gently, then moved back a little. I smiled. I wanted to laugh, to shout, to jump around like my team had won the Superbowl, but I was very still, lest I scare him off. Oh, there were butterflies somewhere.
He’s smart. His mind probes the infinite but sometimes neglects the immediate. I wasn’t expecting a smooth move from someone who’s all knees, thumbs and elbows but, hey, I’m capable, and willing, to learn.
Aug 28, 2022
Aug 28, 2022 at 2:15 PM UTC
the older generation
thinks we're all meth-heads,
ritalin-riddled serial killers,
serious ingesters
of buckets-of-blood thrillers,
they look at me funny
when I sag my pants
look at me funny
when I've got my girl in my arms
and her hands on my zipper
moving slowly
to the biggest dipper, too loud,
they say,
too loud,
too much cursing,
too much blood and gore,
too many games about getting money
and running over grannies to get more;
Ren and Stimpy,
and
Bert and Ernie,
two homos
that need to burn
for their sin,
the world is going
to hell in a handbasket.
Mar 8, 2012
Mar 8, 2012 at 7:40 PM UTC
I don’t know what I’m reading.
I stare and stare and stare at the book given to me by my professor but can’t bring myself to open it, because I don’t know what I’m reading. It’s not in a foreign language that I’m having a hard time translating, because ironically, that would be far too easy. It’s in my native language, the words registering to my brain like breathing, but I still don’t know what I’m reading.
What are these authors saying, as they twist and weave their words into a world that everyone around me seems to understand? I can see the surface level of what the author is trying to say, and if I try hard enough I know I can scratch at it to see the layer right underneath, but it’s not enough. It’s never enough.
“Don’t give excuses,” my professor says, and I know it comes across as an excuse as I try to explain that I can’t tell anyone what the underlying meaning of this scene means, or the symbolism it’s supposed to represent, since it goes flying over my head like a bird narrowly avoiding collision.
“You need to participate,” my professor says, and I know I need to try but how can I when everything that takes ages for me to think of is said within the first five minutes of class discussion? What takes me an hour takes my classmates a minute; what takes time for me to raise my hand for takes my classmates to the next topic, my contribution long past relevant.
How do I survive college this way? How do I get by when writing is what I’m good at, but I can’t understand the writing of other authors and poets who put just as much work into their stories as I do? I am a fraud; the looks of confusion and shame I receive when I state my major to the world are well-deserved.
“Could you share with the class?” my professor asks before we are dismissed, the eyes of my classmates tearing into my soul as I try to bring the words to my lips that I know will never come. What could I say to everyone that expects an intelligent conversation from a college senior?
“I’m sorry professor,” I say. “I can’t.” And I sag under the weight of disappointment.
It’s not my fault, after all. I don’t know what I’m reading.
Dec 10, 2018
Dec 10, 2018 at 2:50 PM UTC
crinkle the chippies
wrinkle the bag
savour the salt
you're now a potato lad
buy the chippies
bag after bag
don't bother
about the belly sag
you're now a potato lad
wonderous flavours...
to be had
don't you worry
if your skin has gone bad
you're now a potato lad
cholesteral rising,
have trouble prising,
your doubled in sizing,
couch potato spread.
no, not you
you're a potato lad
don't worry bout that,
at least, a third of the
world is morbidly fat.
besides my man,
you don't need to cry.
they went organic,
buy, only happy, free range kipfler joys.
they reduced the fat,
changed the taste.
and now your favourite
chips, are too
expensive to buy.
so my boy, you,
no longer can afford...
to be a potato lad
*here endeth
the unhealthy
potato lad
fad*
Apr 10, 2014
Apr 10, 2014 at 5:23 PM UTC
This lilting night
in a world still trembling,
streets sag with silence,
the hush tastes of smoke.
A crow cuts low,
black wing against orange,
leans into the wind,
folds, veers.
Above the trees,
the sky wears a copper bruise,
clouds thick as wool,
the light already retreating.
Air carries the edge of change-
sharp as bitten tin,
wet as stone on the tongue.
All sound brittle:
screen door whining,
tires on gravel,
a match struck to nothing.
your page turning,
the small sigh after,
your breath, mine,
keeping time with the dark.
Sep 23, 2025
Sep 23, 2025 at 11:22 AM UTC
you should’ve never unpacked your bags,
because it gave me this expectation that you were in this for the long run. i’m still running. i have swallowed so much blood that tastes like your regret from biting down my tongue to cage it behind my teeth from screaming about you to a world that wants my blood for ink.
i am more than a number, but 24 makes me feel better than 26, so i sit in jeans that leave red marks on my hips and make it hard to breathe, but see it’s two inches and
i am more than a number, but i know every test score i ever got and still remember fourth grade and question three and crying because suddenly my mistakes had weight and i couldn’t fix things by saying sorry and
i am more than a number, but i was always the middle child, always the not-quite one, not the best friend to anyone, just a girl with kind eyes and jeans that are a little bit too tight and
i am more than a number but to you i am seventeen, ten and three. and lets be clear; it’s the three that haunts me, because *** doesn’t matter and ‘girlfriend’ is just a label, but i wish i was the first girl you truly loved, and sometimes i still wish i was the last, but with you i fear i’ll forever be just another number.
i drove over 17 bridges the other day and next week i'll do it again and i think nobody gets what that means except maybe you.
i just tell them i love the scenery, that somebody must've made these trees blush just for me.
you know how i love to change the subject?
i bet they'd love the view. i bet you would too.
and all these metaphors for other things are beside the point.
this is a metaphor for why i don't wear my seatbelt, a metaphor for why whiskey knows me better than you could ever try to.
all the buildings seemed to sag yesterday and all the stars are doing that cliche thing where they talk quiet jet noise and some lumbering giant made everything shake.
not those hand metaphors, not another one of those & keep the sea to yourself,
i think it was a train, it's sound hugged the embankment for a moment and then trailed off into nowhere,
and that's kind of like me
how there's a town called 'rescue' close to my home and it's no coincidence that i've never been there.
i’m just flatlining now and hoping that you can look at the next girl the way i looked at you.
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 9:54 PM UTC