"snags" poems
She is equipped with sensitive *******
and those other secret places
that ladies give out as prizes
to deserving guys as long as
they adopt the right disguises
of gods, gurus, intellectual giants,
goats, children, father figures, macho brutes,
sugar-daddies, supermen, seminal vessels,
house-repairers, jar openers, jocks, hate objects,
handy shoulders to cry on, emotional support systems,
sensitive, intuitive, yet strong silent types
who can also pay the bills,
tall dark and handsome total strangers,
toy boys, clowns, jugglers, jokers, millionaires,
wood choppers, ******* removers,
bottomless reservoirs of reassurance
or just plain spunky studs when the moon is right.
In fact, anything but woffly wimps.
Oh God, no. Anything but woffly wimps.
Yes, but what about stoic, steadfast SNAGS,
you know, the Sensitive New Age Guys
who won’t face-shift for a ****
Yes, well, let's try to sum all this up here right now.
I think that the woman is dripping
with a brimming reservoir
of luscious and sensitive resources on tap for
the man who can figure out her cosmic kaleidoscope
of swirling dreams and desires,
which is definitely not to say she can’t be totally independent.
Although please don't be confused.
Friendly boy-next-door types who are handsome,
aren't too hairy, who like to laugh, who have a boyish braggadocio,
who are students, who appear to be intellectuals,
who are not nerds,
and who can **** it in the kitchen, who can be oh, so cool,
who can convince a maiden that she is in distress,
and is in need of rescuing, while he has
a swaggering hard-on will do, too.
Oooh. You devil.
And if you think this poem is misogynist, misanthropic or myopic,
well, I’ve been around and by now, well,
I really should be panoptic
because I’ve seen all the fads,
and really, it’s sadly too bad
about those poor old
earnest SNAGS.
But you know what?
I don't think I understand anything, because
I'm really a victim of worshiping women.
I'm bedazzled and as blind as the next man, and
yes,
I'm just happy whenever I'm with them.
Jan 28, 2013
Jan 28, 2013 at 8:28 PM UTC
We fall,
and hard,
and in the shadows,
***** ourselves on snags,
that tear our clothes;
grazed and cut,
we stagger on -
Impressions, ideas, fancies!
Of these have we been disabused.
But is this spring,
come again?
Lovely,
yesterday,
in the bright sunlight,
to see you,
felt green hat in among the photo clouds,
apple suedes on the gallery's dank floor.
Melvyn,
and I,
merrily circling with you the light cloud images,
my nostrils full of pollen spikes.
The pictures:
wisps of trailing dreams churning in ‘scapes of infinite blue;
dark clouds,
in amongst them,
too.
Photographs in two time places
caught;
at once, all:
the other and t'other.
So excitement swells,
and everything besides us quells,
because the knowing of itself,
knows,
and dares beyond the frames;
to skirt knowingly the unsaid;
to want beyond the wounded past,
to pull things,
once again,
inside out.
In whimsy’s currents flow these thoughts,
these feelings,
these drives;
swirling in eddies,
so that as you sit,
on a summer’s day,
it moves,
a mirror to everything above.
The wavelets on the surface,
hammered into shape,
burn, bite and dazzle;
the sun’s flames leaping and dancing on ripples.
In the basement,
on the concrete,
your Y proneness shifts,
releasing knees on black-clad thighs;
two pendulums swinging,
brushing;
yawing metronomes in the cool,
coolness of my desultory thoughts.
Oh, what am I saying?
Feelings like reveries walk along these silver lips straying languorously.
These myths are too soon made,
carried one to the next,
one-on-one,
until contained no longer,
become new truths.
Jun 25, 2018
Jun 25, 2018 at 8:40 PM UTC
As ek snags
in ons bed
met my koue voet
jou warm kniekuil kry
dan voel ek
die ewige geluk
ook al is môre
dalk alles verby
Oct 13, 2017
Oct 13, 2017 at 6:03 AM UTC
THE NEW YEAR TIGER HAS GRACED US WITH HIS PRESENCE
YA SEE GRAWL GOES THE BIG TIGER
AS WE ARE ABOUT TO CELEBRATE A GREAT NEW YEARS FEAST
YA SEE YOU MIGHT BE SITTING AT HOME
WITH YA KEBABS AND SNAGS AND STEAKS AND ****
BUT I CAN TELL YOU ONE THING
THAT YOU DON’T HAVE TO COOK FOR THE NEW YEAR TIGER
CAUSE BEING A TIGER HE LIKES IT RAW
YEAH ROAR GOES THE NEW YEAR TIGER TONIGHT
ROAR GOES THE NEW YEAR TIGER, YEAH
ROAR GOES THE NEW YEAR TIGER TONIGHT
AND WE’LL PARTY RIGHT TILL MIDNIGHT
MIDNIGHT, THE ONE MIDNIGHT WHEN HE DROP THE BALL, HAVE FIREWORKS DISPLAYS
ALL OVER THE PLACE, AND HAVE A TIGER GROWL
EXPLAINING, HE IS THE NEW YEAR TIGER
AND COMING TO GRAB ALL THE GRUB AND *****
THAN HE CAN POKE A STICK AT
NEW YEAR TIGER NEW YEAR TIGER NEW YEAR TIGER
WHAT A WAY TO END THE YEAR, OH NO, WAY
THE HAPPY GO LUCKY CAT, NEW YEAR TIGER
PARTIES ALL THROUGH THE LAND
YA SEE WE COUNT DOWN WITH HIM
RIGHT DOWN FROM TOP TO BOTTOM OH YEAH
AND THE MEN ASKED THE NEW YEAR TIGER FOR
A NICE COLD CAN OF BEER
DRINK IT DOWN, BURP IT OUT
MAKE THE NEW YEAR FUN, COME UP AND DOWN
MR HAPPY CHICKS SAID TO ME
THE NEW YEAR TIGER IS THE COOLEST ***** THAT YOU’LL EVER SEE
THE NEW YEAR TIGER GROWLS FOR A GOOD TIME
AND GROWLS FOR A BAD TIME
HE GROWLS AT ANYTIME, TO TICKLE YA FANCY
LIKE MY MATE NANCY, DO A DANCEY
LIKE YOUR MATE CLANCY, WHO WAS THE TIGER THEY CROSSED WITH A LION
TO CALL IT A TIGON,
WE WISH YOU A HAPPY NEW YEAR
WE WISH YOU A HAPPY NEW YEAR
WE WISH YOU A HAPPY NEW YEAR
FROM THE NEW YEAR TIGER TO YOU, GROOOOOWWWL, HAPPY NEW YEAR
Dec 29, 2014
Dec 29, 2014 at 8:38 PM UTC
Evening was in the wood, louring with storm.
A time of drought had ****** the weedy pool
And baked the channels; birds had done with song.
Thirst was a dream of fountains in the moon,
Or willow-music blown across the water
Leisurely sliding on by weir and mill.
Uneasy was the man who wandered, brooding,
His face a little whiter than the dusk.
A drone of sultry wings flicker'd in his head.
The end of sunset burning thro' the boughs
Died in a smear of red; exhausted hours
Cumber'd, and ugly sorrows hemmed him in.
He thought: 'Somewhere there's thunder,' as he strove
To shake off dread; he dared not look behind him,
But stood, the sweat of horror on his face.
He blunder'd down a path, trampling on thistles,
In sudden race to leave the ghostly trees.
And: 'Soon I'll be in open fields,' he thought,
And half remembered starlight on the meadows,
Scent of mown grass and voices of tired men,
Fading along the field-paths; home and sleep
And cool-swept upland spaces, whispering leaves,
And far off the long churring night-jar's note.
But something in the wood, trying to daunt him,
Led him confused in circles through the thicket.
He was forgetting his old wretched folly,
And freedom was his need; his throat was choking.
Barbed brambles gripped and clawed him round his legs,
And he floundered over snags and hidden stumps.
Mumbling: 'I will get out! I must get out!'
Butting and thrusting up the baffling gloom,
Pausing to listen in a space 'twixt thorns,
He peers around with peering, frantic eyes.
An evil creature in the twilight looping,
Flapped blindly in his face. Beating it off,
He screeched in terror, and straightway something clambered
Heavily from an oak, and dropped, bent double,
To shamble at him zigzag, squat and *******
Headlong he charges down the wood, and falls
With roaring brain--agony--the snap't spark--
And blots of green and purple in his eyes.
Then the slow fingers groping on his neck,
And at his heart the strangling clasp of death.
3.6k
I got zillion tracks to the light
But i chose the one that lights bright
I crawl first and then i stand
Unaware of the snags ahead
I begin to walk through the lane
Oct 25, 2018
Oct 25, 2018 at 10:36 AM UTC
The photo reminded her of bruised fruit. Well first and foremost:fruit.
Her body, curled around itself, sheltering the fibrous crunchy pit of her, her body white and frayed looking, rounded buttock, calf gently sloping, feet modest, willowy toes toenails like shale
face blurred, questionable dark spots where her eyes could have been. they closed as the shudder buckled, her mouth sagged open, lip lolling to one side, brow ancient furrowed like folds of sand nudged by a lazy tide. None of it concise, only guessing. Her knees brought up, squeezed against small
crunch-able chest. Full, heavy with pulp (stringy sweet, what snags on the teeth) but what if it were to fall from an appreciable height? Filmy is the flesh. Daring the looker to look closer, see what mite be hidden there.
Ripe:questionable. Sweet like nothing, pouring from the corners of a mouth: what a bite it would be.
That first bite.
The bruising comes in when she thinks of the brain beneath, that open, limitless figure so pale and forefront and brimming with intent, so crush-able with careless fist, so lovable with thirsty mouth. But what of the mind that put her before you, that turned her vulnerable, shameless, open for discussion?
Put her before you. naked.
Feb 2, 2010
Feb 2, 2010 at 1:01 PM UTC
There are crackles and scratches woven here;
bridges and highways where little things run.
Over tangles of brambles and berries
a bud’s coming out; a hand lying open in grass.
There is bracken crisping; brown and dry;
shaded by waxy leaves where water ***** roll.
There are bees in the air, flitting around.
Air which is thick with nectar and pollen.
It’s dense in here; cramped thorns twist,
ears are twitching, claws scratch on bark.
When the light goes away eyes start to shine,
the scurrying gets furious, noises in darkness.
An owl glides down and a mouse hurries up
but quicker than light, he’s swept from the ground.
Spiralling up from his hawthorn nest
He’s stolen away; into the night.
Sparrows whistle, a feather snags on a branch
and the moon bows down to the lilac dawn.
Mar 21, 2012
Mar 21, 2012 at 8:32 PM UTC
I find you
the lappet moth
like slug or bat
with fuzzy ears
stuck dead with
nothing except
the toxins of
my fever
abnormally
high and
boiling
how
perfect it is
to be under
your legs
bugs
or none
my fingers will
do the
crawling for
any insect
camouflaged
in the skin
dig
the nails
now
bits of flesh
under
tiny specks
of blood
gather
and your net
snags
words I’ve
never uttered
Sep 5, 2017
Sep 5, 2017 at 2:49 PM UTC
I leave the warmth of the feast
Out into the pleasant night air
A cat walks in the garden
Quietly atop a stone wall
It's eyes reflect in torchlight
Like two carved emeralds
I watch from the stone bench
As he snags a damselfly from the air
Pinning it to the mossy stone
Jan 23, 2013
Jan 23, 2013 at 2:01 AM UTC
Tuft of winter coat
Snags upon an open door frame
Escapes the new brush
Tumbles upon hardwood floor
til captured by the old brush
Jun 10, 2010
Jun 10, 2010 at 7:37 PM UTC
Cat sits behind cage
Bored
Man comes in
Cat leaps up
Tries to catch his coattails
Snags his heart instead
Cat sleeps on couch
Content
Man comes in
Cat wakes up
Swats away his gentle hand
Signing it in red
Cat hunts in field
Brave
Man comes out
Cat pounces down
Returns to comfort of house
Victim having fled
Jul 18, 2010
Jul 18, 2010 at 6:36 PM UTC
Whines and groans of melancholy
Knock on my door
Upon opening the blockade
The guest looked very eager
A small, furry stuffed animal sits
Eyes fixed on my complexion
When I smile, the doll imitates
When I brush my hand on the doll's fur
A tongue reveals and kisses my cheek
As I walk down the corridor
The fluffy rascal tails right behind
My eyes dart towards a toy
And the puppy snags it thereafter
With its brown precious eyes gleaming
It's impossible to resist the innocent tug
I take the plushy victim
And fling it across the room
The puppy witnesses the ~Plop~
And immediately dashes
Sprinting in the ten second race
Like a boomerang
The furry speed demon returns
With the plush trapped between its dull jaws
All I can remark is...
"Good Boy!"
May 9, 2013
May 9, 2013 at 7:59 PM UTC
Can anarchy have empathy?
Yes, in our land of Aussies,
We say no wucking furries,
Always more snags on the barbie,
Still listen to a bit of Acca Dacca,
More burgers and fries from Maccas,
Frocked up in trackie dakkies,
Yes, it's the land of Aussies,
Our form of anarchy has empathy!
Sep 2, 2016
Sep 2, 2016 at 2:37 AM UTC
THE PARTY AT PRINCE REGENT HOTEL FOR NEW YEARS
YA SEE WE PARTIED AT PRINCE REGENT HOTEL
ON NEW YEARS EVE, OH YEAH THAT SOUND SWEET
YA SEE THE CHEF HAD A BIG FRY UP WITH LEFT OVER SNAGS AND STEAKS
UEAH THAT SOUNDS SO COOL
AND ALL THE MEN SAT IN THE CORNER, DUDE
SAYING TOO EACH OTHER, WHAT A FINE COLLECTION OF *****
AND ONE FATHER GAVE HISW 8 YEAR OLD DAUGHTER SCOTCH AND COKE
AND DESPITE THE HOTEL STAFF HATING IN, THEIR HANDS WERE TIED
GREG LIKED THAT INTEGRITY, OH YEAH, DUDES, THOUGHT IT WAS RAD
CAUSE GREG WASN’T GOING TO BE LABLED A PARTY POOPER
IN EVERY STRETCH OF THE IMAGINATION
GREG DECIDED TO LAY LOW FOR A WHILE, SO HE GOT DRESSED UP AS THE NEW YEAR TIGER, DUDE
AND PUT ON A LITTLE SHOW FOR THE KIDS TO ENJOY THEIR NEW YEARS
GREG WAS A BIT WEIRD CAUSE HE WAS FORCING KIDS TO LISTEN TO HIM LISTEN TO HIM LISTEN TO HIM
THE KIDS WERE TIRED BUT GREG STILL FORCED THE KIDS TO LISTEN TO HIS NEW YEAR TIGER SHOW
YA SEE THIS DAY WAS START OF MY PARANORMAL VOICES YA SEE
YOU SEE ROSLYN MARRIED ME, CAUSE I WAS FORCING KIDS TO WATCH MY SHOWS
WHETHER THEY WERE TIRED OR NOT
YA SEE, WHEN I WAS YOUNG IN THIS LIFE, I HEARD VOICES OF PEOPLE TALKING ABOUT ME, BEHIND MY BACK
I DIDN’T KNOW WHAT TO MAKE OF IT AT FIRST, AND PEOPLE ARE RIBBING ME, BY SAYING SHUT UP WOOSEY
TO ME, AND NOW AS I REMEMBER, AS THE DINNER WAS OVER, JOSEPH PEANUCKLE
DECIDED TO GO TO HIS SUITE TO GET HIS FLUTE TO ENTERTAIN THE CROWD
AND THE LADIES AND MEN DANCED WITH EACH OTHER AND GREG AND THE
HOTEL STAFF WERE TALKING TO EACH OTHER, ISN’T THIS WONDERFUL
AND EACH OF US HAS 6 MILLION POUNDS EACH, AND IF EACH OF THE STAFF
PUTS IN 1 MILLION POUNDS, PRINCE REGENT HOTEL CAN GET THE COUNTRY CLUB UPGRADE
THAT IT THOROUGHLY DESERVES, AND AS THEY PARTY INTO THE NIGHT, AT 11.55 PM
GREG DRESSED UP AS THE NEW YEAR TIGER AND SANG
I AM A TIGER IN A TOP HAT
A TIGER IN A WHITE TIE
AND WE’LL PARTY ON DOWN
YA SEE, I AM A TIGER IN A TOP HAT
A TIGER IN A WHITE TIE
AND COUNT ‘EM OWN
HE REPEATED THAT TILL THE BIG COUNTDOWN
AND LED THE COUNTDOWN
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 AND YELLED OUT HAPPY NEW YEAR
AND JOSEPH PLAYED AULD LENG ZINE ON THE FLUTE
AND PLAYED OTHER SONGS ON THE FLUTE TILL 1-29 AM IN THE MORNING
ALL THE HOTEL GUESTS, ALL WENT TO BED, WHILE GREG AND THE HOUSE KEEPERS
WERE CLEANING UP AFTERWARDS, AND THIS HAPPENED EVERY YEAR OF THE
1817 TO 1819, THE 1820S THE 1830S THE 1840S
AND GREG WAS GREAT, EACH YEAR BRINGING THE NEW YEAR IN WITH A GRIN
HAPPY NEW YEAR, FROM THE OLD FASHIONED PRINCE REGENT HOTEL
AND ALL UPGRADES WERE SUCCESSFUL, MELBOURNE WERE THE TALK OF THE COUNTRY BACK THEN
HAPPY NEW YEAR
Dec 30, 2014
Dec 30, 2014 at 10:28 AM UTC
grit sand conglomerate binds
friction holding - heel steady
tottering
navy lace snags
upon brick dipped in night
save for - street lamps poignantly
establishing form to
lips seeking
to traverse the topography of your structure
tongue craving - salivary essence about mine
my curls remember being dragged
across,
- then –
pressed firmly against the brick
snagging
on vertical groove and red clay
your pelvic bone
ground deep – pressurized
into dust against my own
Serotonin, oxytocin fuse
Blown -
Neural patina – thick
Pompeii to Vesuvius
Diffuse
Carbon filament lattice
Clings - to
ancient couple
cuddling
in ashen grave
Compressed densely
Perchance time will compress this grit
creating friction under sole.
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 9:08 PM UTC
Snags in her tights,
Chipped black on her claws,
She stands against walls,
Vulnerable to the brawls.
A skirt grazing her thighs,
Too small for her liking,
She pulls at the seems,
And feeds the old men lies.
Lips that bleed,
Mascara stained cheek,
Frame too slim,
She's in the gutter, sensual and meek.
Lady of the night,
Rolls to your car,
beckons you with her finger,
hopes you won't linger.
A ten note slips,
Into her grip.
She squeezes.
It will feed her addiction.
She has money to pay,
Children to feed,
She digs her knuckles so much they bleed.
Life carries by,
As she tries to get high,
On the fumes of other men.
But the red light comes on,
Her skirt hitches up,
She cries as he whispers
good girl.
As he kisses her neck,
She thinks what the heck
Am I doing with my **** awful life,
Selling cheap love,
To father above,
In hope she gets a better price
than the tiny sum
From every business bloke that comes, beckons her into his arms.
She pulls at her pleather,
At her last tether,
Why am I in this life?
Soho's her home,
But it leaves her numb to the bone.
She has more than budget passion,
She craves style,
She fashion.
But instead the needle pierces,
And she sinks down,
Hating the body she's in,
Women walk and they frown,
But they don't understand how the girl feels deep down,
She just wants true love.
Oh heaven above?
If there is a Holy Spirit,
Let me be it,
For this withered young **********
Belongs in your constitute,
Please, she begs, save me from the charity brutes.
Nov 21, 2014
Nov 21, 2014 at 6:13 PM UTC
It was threatening rain for a week or more
It was always threatening rain,
The Weather Bureau was always sore
When the threatening rain never came.
We’d hold an open air barbecue
Each time they said it would come,
‘Hey it’s gonna rain,’ said Oliver Payne,
‘What do they think, we’re dumb?’
But the Bureau Chief, one Adrian Reef
Said he was sick to the core,
Why wouldn’t the weather behave itself
Like it had done before,
‘It’s making us look like a laughing stock,’
He bitterly said to Jane,
‘I want you to ring up the airport now
And charter a small, light plane,’
He loaded the plane up with dry ice
And a generous load of salt,
And lugged along an elephant gun,
The plane took off with a jolt,
He peppered the clouds with ice that day,
He put his job on the line,
The last thing he wanted to have to say:
‘The weather is going to be fine.’
And down on the ground at the barbecue
We were sizzling snags and steak,
Having an ice cold beer or two
And trying to stay awake.
The sultry weather was drowsy then
We’d heard the report, in vain,
But just when the steaks were nicely done
It came down, bucketing rain.
We didn’t have time to pack it up,
We couldn’t save snags or steak,
In only a couple of minutes there
We were staggering round in a lake,
And Oliver’s esky floated away
With the rest of the beer we’d bought,
While we took shelter as best we could
Under cover of Maggie’s porch.
The water rose right up to our knees,
Our cars were afloat that day,
The chickens drowned and the old hearth hound
Was found seven miles away,
While on the Teev was the Bureau Chief
With a grin that was not quite sane,
He knew he’d won with his elephant gun,
‘The sky is threatening rain!’
David Lewis Paget
Jan 9, 2015
Jan 9, 2015 at 2:04 PM UTC
Life of a man in poverty is pure experiment,
It effortlessly starts in the morning on each day
Swaddled in acuteness of despair and hope,
Hoping to pass on food for breakfast and lunch
Without test of agony in hunger pains;wistfullness
As drive for opportunity of super is forcefully atomic,
Projecting for bliss in posterity without education,
As paranoia of a merchant awaits disillusionment,
Pumping into regular snags from fortune creation,
As economic powers that be fix final nails
to the coffin, in which rests twist of fate,
Hoping for global relations to succor the times
As self reinforced poverty fetters all experiments,
Happening to be in the pauper’s laboratory,
Converting everything all into poverty’s turf.
Mar 18, 2014
Mar 18, 2014 at 9:27 AM UTC
Something isn’t right.
Perhaps I’m a little screwy.
I thought the fear of cooties
existed only within childhood realms.
It’s come back to me in my twenties however.
In grown up terms I think it’d
be referred to as a fear of intimacy.
In psychological terms PTSD.
It snags against the chip on my shoulder
catching and consuming my heart.
I’m afraid of cooties.
Yeah, let’s say that’s the problem.
**** is such an ugly word after all.
Nov 25, 2014
Nov 25, 2014 at 11:06 PM UTC
And again you fall up.
Fall up into your own head.
Your tangled strings of thoughts
Slither and snake around themselves and choke
Themselves out with a pressure twisted
Tighter than boy-scout knots
Ebbing around painful snaps of rubber band nerves
Looping around the tennis ball of your brain
And as you fall your foot snags on the ringed
End of a threading needle and as you kick it deeper
Into your soft red pin cushion mind
You are hanging with your legs pointed up
With your fingers just barely *******
The edge of that whiskey bottle
The needle breaks.
And you fall down into that drink
Dousing your brain with boiling hot liquid
Hoping that your knotted thoughts will
Melt into spaghetti, soft and loose
Barely circling the fork of your brain
And finally unravel the pressure of
Being the only person who falls both ways.
Apr 12, 2012
Apr 12, 2012 at 8:46 PM UTC
I'm not insecure. I'm jealous and unrightfully so. You're not mine. I'm jealous of anyone who catches your eye, I'm jealous of anyone who snags your attention. I'm jealous of the ones who take your time. I'm insanely jealous of anyone who makes you smile, feel, live more than I do. I have 41 days, 16 hours and approximately 32 minutes left here. I completely understand that you would not want to commit to that, to me when I will be 800 miles away. But I'm still here for now. I'm here now. Make these moments count. These should be what matter. Don't be scared, because you know I'm going to leave please. I just want to love you deeper than anyone else has, or will. Why can't you let me?
Sep 17, 2016
Sep 17, 2016 at 6:44 AM UTC
*Hear her wails in the dead of night
they signify someones death tonight.
Foreboding this harbinger of deaths message
does wait at the threshold.
The reaper comes and snags you,
brings you through the shadows pull.
You think of how it came to be
that your life, so wonderful,
has come to an end.
With one Banshee's call.*
Dec 26, 2013
Dec 26, 2013 at 1:25 PM UTC
memory
and the city lights fading behind me
the wheels turning in the night
the tears called upon to save you have decayed
faded into the cake of makeup
stretched on your parody smile
put a candle on that babe and celebrate another year
twenty miles outa town
stopped my buick
'neith the highway sing
and in the cool desert moon
made love to another woman
just to have another falling star to chase
shes a little cracked but she can smile
yes she can
and that's a ray of pure sunshine to this broken heart
that's a glass of gladness in the chambers of sour
i owe a thousand apologies
but none of them east of the mississippi
so i head to sunny florida
spend all my time in the rain
writing letters home to the mountains of the moon
serenity is just another girl after all
isnt that what she would say
a fun pile of hot packed in skintight jeans
but just a girl
tried to find a narrow path in the thorns
attempted to get round the snags
but milkmaids and **** kings
are all too sure that id fail someday
and they wait with bated breath for me to be
on my knees
but im making a new lifetime outa the dust
im carving a new hope outa the curses laid on me
ill make it because im resolved like iron ink
but im rusting like rainwater
and there is nobody i can hope not to offend
i had thought to find your hand to hold
and standing here in the rain
wish itd work its way out
im so weary of the futile chase
but you left on a train headed north to go find my enemies
to deal out some measure of justice
im resolved like iron ink
rusting in the american sun
nobody's treasure
born to wait
come home someday
Sep 4, 2013
Sep 4, 2013 at 6:06 AM UTC