"vans" poems
Am I really that uncouth?
Have you lot yet worked out the truth.
The **** I write, it's so contrite.
I know you're dim
but I thought you might.
I've been feeding bananas to you all.
Big bananas, none are small.
All are bent, of course they are.
Enough's enough, it's gone too far.
Dear Voyeurs, to all my fans.
Some ride cycles, some drive vans.
for M&Y, yeah you're the guy.
So I bait my line and continue the lie.
But let's have it right, as well I might.
You wanted to play,
so pretended you're gay.
Now most I know aren't,
but one or two do.
Boiler repair guy with the twinkly eye.
Bent over in two, I spank with a shoe.
And all that he asks is, I call him Sue.
So I have him pegged,
for that's what he begged.
But now he knocks on my door
wanting much more.
Fuckin' Big Bent Bananas
by Kaydee.
(slurp, slurp)
Jul 25, 2018
Jul 25, 2018 at 2:55 PM UTC
A gentleman is not brutal,
but he will prove all vendettas futile.
He is not immune to bullet, fist or blade
but any insult raised against him
will be met with a blockade.
He is stoic, but still smiles,
cracking his face open without reserve
for a friend, to calm, to a foe, to unnerve.
A gentleman dresses his best,
whether it Vans and sweater, or tie and vest.
No-one is beneath his attention
he gifts compliments quite often,
but when a man puts a hand on him,
that man goes home in a coffin.
No matter his orientation,
he respects every inclination,
He holds the door
the same way he strikes true,
every time.
He knows his weapon well,
but in blood, he doesn't buy nor sell.
He knows the time to fight
but of violence, he makes no light.
He respects every man,
every woman,
every child...
But,
if his family is ever hurt
and this one renders apologies inert
then they shall receive only
a box and a white shirt.
Dec 11, 2014
Dec 11, 2014 at 1:41 PM UTC
Manila,
Manila,
Your bustling streets vibrate with the rumbling of the jeepneys
and the hollers of the drivers as they say,
“Pasahero diyan, kasya pa, kasya pa!”; (Any passenger there, some seats are still free!)
Your nights twinkle with the Christmas lights
that surround every tree around the Meralco building
when September begins;
Your endless traffic jams keep McDonald’s and KFC alive
twenty-four by seven
where traffic enforcers dodge cars
and vans
trucks and tricycles
and jeepneys and bicycles
while dancing to the rhythm beating in their own ears
with a smile and a salute to all the drivers
from dawn to dusk;
The noise awakens the outskirts of your city
filled with people who never fails to smile
even when the storm pirouettes like a tempestuous ballerina,
where children watch the roads
transform into this ocean of black water
and small wooden boats become the means of transportation;
paddling in between houses
as the adults try to go to work;
where chickens waddling upon roofs
and cats chasing rats
become the best forms of entertainment
but Manila,
your lingering smell of cancer
comes with the dark blue starless sky
telling people to grip their bags until it merges with their bodies.
Manila, say good night
while they hold it tight
protecting it from the dark humid air
where thieves come out to
thumb down unscrutinised objects
from shallow pockets
by the flickering lamps
across the blazing red and emerald green lights
you see less
and less
and less
faces
as the Sun sinks and says good bye.
Stop
and try to tranquilise yourself.
Your city is now lead
by a blood-thirsty leader.
Apologies from gunshots overpower the cries of help from your people.
Manila,
ignore them
and sleep well.
Let the truth decay
while lives burn and vanish.
Prayers cannot save your mutinous ignominy.
Halcyon days are over
but
Manila,
you are still a beautiful city.
Your resilient people
overflows with hospitable hearts.
Their faces plastered with big smiles
as they welcome us for you
and say, “Mabuhay!” (Long live!)
proud and mighty.
Offering their minds on banana leaf plates to everyone who visits,
Giving away their hearts in small loot bags to everyone who leaves,
The Pearl of the Orient Seas
was my hood.
Manila,
despite your lack of snow
and intense weather swings,
You are
and will always be
my home.
Apr 7, 2017
Apr 7, 2017 at 4:54 PM UTC
Balcony Life:
Sometimes I just watched outside, and it was a glorious day.
Children actually played. Groups sunbathed and basked in beer
Ice-cream vans were heard not far from here
Above a plane heading somewhere etched its mark
traced in nothing but just plain blue sky,
for miles, as far as the eyes could see.
Up the motorway, the sun ignites on speeding sunroofs
Toward the Campsie Fells set in a haze of bottle green
The white trickle of yesterdays snow cut like some dyslexic ancient symbol
A place for misspent youth and baking trays on icy days
A hot cheap brand coffee in a chipped petrol-token mug
Perched on weathered wrought iron painted brown like last year
Meant so much in that moment grasped and shaped like glass with glee
I remember that there is life in this here estate sometimes
Watching as you do,
from your own slice of life on your patch of balcony
Nov 2, 2012
Nov 2, 2012 at 10:24 AM UTC
These vans on my feet are *****
Dripped on by the blood of a won basketball game.
Dirt covered from the many mosh pits.
Torn on from my longboard grip.
Rubber grey from long walks.
Bled through tie die from lots of running
Brown stains from standing in the woods
Broken eyelets from a forgotten drunk night.
Missing shoelace caught in a bicycle wheel.
Only to be replaced.
Just like my love.
Like my summer.
Oct 16, 2012
Oct 16, 2012 at 10:19 PM UTC
A barraster at law no less
I wouldnt trust I must confess
Looking down your pointed nose
seductively holding pose
Your linkedIn profile
who could see
just how you get your
filthy fee
Perverted farming
Filthy creeps
In Hi ace vans
and blacked out jeeps
Gratefully they pay their fee
In return for an STD
Heres the justice overflow
For Nank and **** and ******
I'm returning him to you
When I scrape him from my shoe
For you my dear a final fact
His STD is still intact!
Enjoy!
May 13, 2011
May 13, 2011 at 3:43 AM UTC
Paper cuts make my knees shake.
World goes fuzzy
land swimming
Where are the ****** band-aids?
But gore makes my heart sing.
Wrists all slit
stomachs split wide
viscera falling
Where are the flayed faces?
Blood drives scare me.
White vans all out
hiding away
Can’t they go elsewhere?
But dungeons cheer me.
Tables and crosses
and rusty chains on ceiling
our tools all spread out
Can’t we go play?
Nov 13, 2017
Nov 13, 2017 at 11:39 AM UTC
smoke.
the smell of nicotine
rests on my black
graphic t-shirt.
the dwell of misery
rests on my back,
while music reverbs.
my black vans are
filthy with the weight
of pain.
a wallet,
filled with little notes.
writings from her
in my back pocket.
a very lonely bench awaits
my place as i sit and
try to out smoke
this familiar mental state.
i look out into the
water ahead, the creek’s
liquid mirror reflecting
her aura.
“oh god, not again.”
a sudden and sharp spike
of sadness runs through
me, a longing tear trails
my frozen cheeks.
then i remember him,
and how much i miss him.
i remember him calling out
for me along with mom,
and how harmoniously my
heart would pump gallons
upon gallons of hot burning
blood.
hot burning love.
i take another drag to mask
the molecules of reality
that i wish i wouldn’t have
to inhale.
i look up
at the aligning stars,
and by the grace
of the god i do not
believe in
do i tell you
that i let out a cry
so loud, that he himself must’ve
felt heaven shake.
with water flooding
my brown eyes, i
yelled and pleaded
whatever being
that could hear me
to end me, because
i tell you that
all this pain,
of missing certain people,
of longing for lost love,
of experiencing incompleteness,
of feeling so ******* unable to stand up,
of combatting the poison guilt is,
drags.
at my soul,
harder
than cigarette
smoke.
-melancholicreator
Nov 5, 2018
Nov 5, 2018 at 10:24 AM UTC
One room away is a woman
who wants me to **** her.
She is beautiful, intelligent, and drunk.
I am ugly, intelligent, and sober.
Even though my highest and best
tells me to walk away with a smile,
my core screams for a ruining.
One room away is a drunk, *****
dripping work of art who is also
very, very lucky.
Charles tells me to listen to
my **** and Pablo whispers a reminder
to remember the smell
of early morning wheat
and your eyelashes
while Walt and I gaze at the stars
and think of death.
I smile to myself,
soaking in the after glow
of vanilla chai, good ****
and dead poets.
One room away is a woman
who's fate was in my sadistic hands.
Two rooms away is a twelve year old
who is dreaming of flag football
and Vans and getting to
level 37 of Skyrim
and one day,
after he wakes up
and after we have our
toaster strudel,
and somewhere in between
me stopping for coffee
and dropping him off,
I'll remind him
that good ***** is everywhere
so take your time and do it right
and when you just don't want to
look at their face,
make some tea,
catch a buzz,
and read some poetry.
Apr 24, 2013
Apr 24, 2013 at 1:09 AM UTC
it is an honor
to love
and be loved
by you (only you)
i wanted a hippie van
and you wanted to make me happy
so you took off your Vans and grabbed a marker
we wrote "don't worry, be hippie" on the fabric until our fingers cramped
Jan 14, 2015
Jan 14, 2015 at 1:55 AM UTC
My grandma told me it was time to go home, and that's when I so badly wanted to ask to stay one more night
I felt more at home at my grandmas than I do in my regular house
So I kicked on my old vans, grabbed my back pack and went home
Compared to my regular house, we do more stuff at my grandmas than we do there
Where at home I just lay in bed listening to my music and watch movies that I've seen like 500 times
There's a picture in our kitchen that says "God Bless Our Home"
Then again I haven't come into contact with any sort of god.
The only people in my house are me, my brother, and mother
And my dad on the weekends since my parents separated at least a year ago
And my sister is going off to college soon so I don't really ever see her because she lives with her mom and has a job
I see her on holidays and birthdays and such which makes me happy
Life in my home hasn't been the same since my parents split
We used to be active I would say
Now I all I do, like I said before, is lay in bed.
I go out sometimes, for shows and other stuff
I don't really hang out with friends from school except for my bestfriend since we go to the same shows
School starts back in a few weeks and am I prepared? Yes and no
I'm excited to see my friends and I'm not excited to see people who annoy me
But let's go back to talking about home
What's your definition of home?
In the dictionary home is the place where one lives permanently, especially as a member of a family or household.
My definition of home is that home is a place where you make memories. Home is a place where you live and die. Home is a place full of love and hate. It's a place where you can feel comfy and warm or miserable and cold.
Home is where the heart is and I guess my heart moved out a long time ago...
Aug 6, 2014
Aug 6, 2014 at 6:53 PM UTC
You saw by panes held by thin wire.
Two-ways seeing crumbled fire.
I remember autumn
Checking at the bookstore
In your vans on film you wore
No conception of bottom.
A kid from Mexico, 15
Convincingly my age unclean
Walk summer down West Sylvester
Powder sugar walkway, tester
The ******* **** is blue
Wild eyes tell me you knew.
Back across the fairchild lot
He slid to drive; I told- we bought
They'd taken off without their lights
He barreled lone known route recites
As I scream STOP
IT ISN'T WORTH IT
I'LL GET YOU BACK
PULL OVER, ****
No one taught us how to quit
We rotten without teeth to grit
Jan 27, 2015
Jan 27, 2015 at 3:51 AM UTC
i saw the greater part of creation succumb to the piracy of numbness-
the nimbus rage of torpedo cigars blowing blue-grey smoke into the dark lashes of love-struck little *****
thirsty angels with tangled curls of hair bashing their heads against bathroom walls
screaming under their breath, not enough.
i saw the green plastic- and her orange eyes
and the soap-bubbles on the sidewalk
and the soap frothing all over the sidewalk
and the glass that took off like pristine bullets in every direction
and-
blood running over the cum-covered lip of the curb, flowing into the street-
down to the drain, dripping into the hungry orifices of the big metal grate
into sewer pipe salvation-
destination unhindered by your humanity.
god, this must be insanity
and not even the good kind.
but
let's go watch the fire-works up on the roof-
crawl out the attic window
i let you go first to watch the electric calico
trickle down your legs like a promise.
i like the birds that fly in and out of your hair-
the handkerchief at your hip,
i like the crazy and the cool-
the too cute for comfort
and the fake angsty danger of your darkside.
like morphine-
the band or the drug?
you're ironically detached
with your semi-satanic languidity-
and overdue serenity
[i got a few overdue books at the library.]
[they closed the library a long time ago.]
i like to play catch with your presence-
our eyes with the back-and-forth,
the half-sent glances when we think the other isn't looking.
but we were always looking-
or at least i was always looking at you.
i could see half inside of you.
you were always half-naked-
in the scanty rags of the latest fashion.
when you breathed it was like nectarine noises-
and muffled yelps of love.
i watched your shirt move up and down on your chest
and told you about "never knows best"
it seems
i've seen the greater part of creation succumb to the supreme softness
and the best laid plans of motorcycles and mini-vans fall to pieces in my palms.
and you were the greatest creation i saw on the roof that day.
don't bat another pretty little eyelash at those tiny flashing pieces that go past like ricochets
it's just one more night of strangeness
and then you can be free again.
Jul 11, 2012
Jul 11, 2012 at 1:34 AM UTC
Camping out is an experience everyone should have
The cool grass in the morning and the birdsong
Timeless air keeps you alive, energises the soul.
Freezing feet and nose is inevitable as blanket or sleeping bag
Don't quite make the grade
The hard ground or undersheet has a smell that remains
In your nose and in your memory
Bringing the place back to you in your latter years.
Once breakfast is cooking everything seems OK
The worst part is the transition of night into day
Then day into night,
It's easy, stay up and just look upwards
No light pollution, no clouds, no sound
Drink in the inky blackness as Orion's three winking lights
Demonstrate how wonderful life is
But more importantly how small we are
Tiny dim orange lights glow in the tents and vans
Muffled noises diminish as the occupants climb
Into their cosy beds and roll themselves up
To keep out the cold, the inevitable insects
One by one the darkness becomes complete
Until no more music can be heard or
Voices, rustling sounds or whimpering children
Wanting their teddy bear or comfort blanket
Mummies and Daddies soothing
The silence is deafening save a cool breeze
Just flapping the tent canvas, small cracking
Sounds as it rolls and then straightens.
Rolls then straightens gently, gently, gently
The guy ropes straining a little then relaxing
Another night comes to the campsite
Enveloped in darkness all are safe and inside
Their little tent or van
Goodnight campers, sleep tight.
Max Hale
Aug 30, 2013
Aug 30, 2013 at 4:43 PM UTC
Everyone's out to outdo everyone else
It's not even about meaning anymore
It's how much press coverage it gets
Whoever makes them "just" statistics
And there's no fantasy draft yet
Somewhere alone in his dark place
Ruminating his environment
Some bedwetting, fire starting, animal abuser
Infantilized by the hatred of maternal instincts
Projected on him
De-evolved
He likes the way she hurts him
She abuses open hand words
or clenched up fists of embarrassment
It just fuels his homicidal tendencies
His brains on the hate frequency
And he's ready to let the fantasy slip
Home is where the heartless host
absence of emotional ghosts
the boy
the man
the monster
He lost it
Family annihilator,
He took his mother out last
So she'd suffer through
the destruction of the ********
Her wasted wish
of abortion'd children.
This was before the news vans
This was before the first respondents
This was before the society outlash
Back to him alone in a dark place
In the depths of his disturbing mind
He sets higher stakes.
Oct 20, 2013
Oct 20, 2013 at 8:20 PM UTC
Here neatly side by side these rotted steels
Cancerous rust peeled off paints lay idle
Progress put halt these **** grown wheels
The sad pale ghosts of once was tireless angels
In unknown graveyard of ambulances
There's silence. But whistling birds in a tree
Not like sirens blared heard far distances
Cut through traffic like ships divide the sea
Wings on fire ferrying perilous load
Sick and dying dire need to hospital
Mother's in labour mishap on the road
Saviour of lives young, old and critical
Where mankind employs, mankind destroys
Hollowed vans left to whims like broken toys.
Apr 13, 2018
Apr 13, 2018 at 9:01 PM UTC
O' Warped Tour
On the hot blacktop we stand
In front of your various stages
The beautiful bands grace us with their angelic,
or if they prefer, demonic, voices.
O' Warped Tour
The people we meet
Girls in bikinis
Boys with ****** noses
Teenagers sitting on shoulders
O' Warped Tour
Mosh pits in the front
Singing in the back
Crowd surfing
To running circle pits
O' Warped Tour
With your merchants
And band autographs
With your cigarette smoke
And crazy teens
With your summer days
And loud music
We never want to leave
O' Warped Tour
We love you
May 24, 2013
May 24, 2013 at 12:53 PM UTC
_Marge_ retrogrades lazily towards the hills;
Her name, printed the width of her cab-over dinette
In crinkled cobalt cursive,
Totters eccentrically as her handbrake fails.
SNAP-AP
Oblivious to errant camper vans (and centripetal forces in general),
Barney speeds maniacally along a deserted city street;
Golden coated and joyously poochie,
His tongue flabbers as fast as his bicycle courier dad can pedal.
SNAP-AP-AP
Mr Blue buys buckets at Bunnings
To match his cerulean suit and shinier-than-shiney satin shirt;
Periwinkle rhinestone shoes carry him unabashedly passed the second glances and sideways looks;
There goes the best dressed DIY-er in town…don’t ya know.
SNAP-AP-AP-AP
Apr 5, 2022
Apr 5, 2022 at 7:01 PM UTC
Knee length skirt, cotton cami,
lace shrug, and heels.
All black.
Fair skin, blonde hair, blue eyes. Very pretty.
My children edge past her, past the Other Women,
on their way to the park.
Son takes a second look, then hurries on. Vans squeak
through sodden grass.
Baggy jeans soak up puddles of mud.
Typical twelve-year-old boy.
They return,
plastered in cut-grass, flushed-pink and grinning.
Daughter cradles the ball, and
crows about winning, while
The Pretty One, the Other Women,
alternate tuts with
oh-what-it-is-to-be-youngs
…
but The Pretty One,
she's only
twelve.
Jul 31, 2012
Jul 31, 2012 at 12:11 PM UTC
Freedom gives us……
poetry and the ability to make music,
you just have to ignore the discrimination in them,
Freedom gives us the poetry that helps your thoughts become real,
even when you hear poems that remind you of the hell we’re living in,
Freedom gives us soldiers to fight our wars,
even though they don’t always come back,
Freedom gives us faith to stand tall on,
if you don't mind people killing each other over religion,
Freedom gives us happiness,
and every now and then a glimpse of hell.
Freedom gives us the right to do whatever you want,
with some murders and don't mind the gun shots.
Freedom gives you a free voice,
if you don’t mind a war because of different opinions,
Freedom gives you the choice to believe in heaven,
though hell proceeds to make sure it’s all around us,
Freedom gives kids the right to be in themselves,
even if kids are bullied daily,
Freedom gives us the the right to think love exist,
you just have to ignore all the hatred people show towards one another,
Freedom gives us the right to believe there are good people in the world,
even when sometimes all you can see is the air filled with blood,
Freedom gives you the right to talk about whatever you want wherever you want,
just not in school as if **** and drugs are trigger words that might remind kids of reality,
Freedom gives us the right to go to school and learn,
just not about the real world,
We learn that ****** are only in the dark alleys and white vans.
no one ever told us they could be the ones in our home,
our neighbors,
our friends,
They make it sound like a fairy tale “the princess always gets saved”,
I guess I was just too broken,
showed too much emotion so they didn't need to save me,
Freedom gives us choices,
Fight back or stay quiet and I chose to fight back
I didn't need a prince charming I SAVED MYSELF, came clean as people called me a liar
Because I denied a little girl her ******* fairy tale,
Freedom gives us the right to feel powerful,
they forgot to mention how fast it can be taken away.
I am waiting for people to understand that we created hell,
which means we can get rid of it.
Oct 26, 2015
Oct 26, 2015 at 9:18 AM UTC
I spent Thanksgiving
this year
not in the blue-collar comfort
of my aunt’s house,
nestled somewhere
within a well-buried suburb
of a quaint, but un-noteworthy neighborhood
with walls decorated with Budweiser signs
juxtaposed against portraits of the ****** Mary,
where a football announcer’s voice plays like
conservative talk radio
in the background.
Instead, to save the labor
of my weary immigrant grandmother,
we dressed in Sunday best
and drove ourselves in
three well-packed mini vans
to some elegant hotel restaurant,
ideal for people-watching
from the gaudy, art-deco staircase
while pretending to be in the Great Gatsby.
It didn’t feel natural, though,
that beside a modest turkey breast
with cranberry dressing, sat a beautiful
cut of prime rib, carefully ladled
with truffle au juis–
nor beside a humble dollop
of mashed potatoes and gravy,
should there be salmon to die for,
and berries slathered with brie.
The food I nibbled
with bites of nervous guilt,
as the impeccably dressed waiter
exhaustedly refilled our water glasses,
nodding his head reflexively
to my mouse squeaks of “thank you’s”
What monsters are we,
letting these people work on Thanksgiving Day?
Grandma said, calmly, that some people
are just happy to be paid,
recounting
her impoverished childhood
in war-torn Germany—
that to simply muffle
the aggressive rumbling
of a days-empty stomach,
she and her brother
would ****** a handful of
potatoes from a government farm,
not many, but just enough
as she grimaced
at the ever-so-slight mealiness
of her rosemary-infused pork chop—
the woman who couldn’t afford ham
until she became a citizen.
We nodded quietly and
swallowed our privileged guilt,
washed down with
politely cut bites
of perfectly cooked salmon.
May 30, 2013
May 30, 2013 at 3:17 PM UTC
Italia! thou art fallen, though with sheen
Of battle-spears thy clamorous armies stride
From the north Alps to the Sicilian tide!
Ay! fallen, though the nations hail thee Queen
Because rich gold in every town is seen,
And on thy sapphire-lake in tossing pride
Of wind-filled vans thy myriad galleys ride
Beneath one flag of red and white and green.
O Fair and Strong! O Strong and Fair in vain!
Look southward where Rome’s desecrated town
Lies mourning for her God-anointed King!
Look heaven-ward! shall God allow this thing?
Nay! but some flame-girt Raphael shall come down,
And smite the Spoiler with the sword of pain.
2.5k
The moon, a sweeping scimitar, dipped in the stormy straits,
The dawn, a crimson cataract, burst through the eastern gates,
The cliffs were robed in scarlet, the sands were cinnabar,
Where first two men spread wings for flight and dared the hawk afar.
There stands the cunning workman, the crafty past all praise,
The man who chained the Minotaur, the man who built the Maze.
His young son is beside him and the boy's face is a light,
A light of dawn and wonder and of valor infinite.
Their great vans beat the cloven air, like eagles they mount up,
Motes in the wine of morning, specks in a crystal cup,
And lest his wings should melt apace old Daedalus flies low,
But Icarus beats up, beats up, he goes where lightnings go.
He cares no more for warnings, he rushes through the sky,
Braving the crags of ether, daring the gods on high,
Black 'gainst the crimson sunset, golden o'er cloudy snows,
With all Adventure in his heart the first winged man arose.
Dropping gold, dropping gold, where the mists of morning rolled,
On he kept his way undaunted, though his breaths were stabs of cold,
Through the mystery of dawning that no mortal may behold.
Now he shouts, now he sings in the rapture of his wings,
And his great heart burns intenser with the strength of his desire,
As he circles like a swallow, wheeling, flaming, gyre on gyre.
Gazing straight at the sun, half his pilgrimage is done,
And he staggers for a moment, hurries on, reels backward, swerves
In a rain of scattered feathers as he falls in broken curves.
Icarus, Icarus, though the end is piteous,
Yet forever, yea, forever we shall see thee rising thus,
See the first supernal glory, not the ruin hideous.
You were Man, you who ran farther than our eyes can scan,
Man absurd, gigantic, eager for impossible Romance,
Overthrowing all Hell's legions with one warped and broken lance.
On the highest steeps of Space he will have his dwelling-place,
In those far, terrific regions where the cold comes down like Death
Gleams the red glint of his pinions, smokes the vapor of his breath.
Floating downward, very clear, still the echoes reach the ear
Of a little tune he whistles and a little song he sings,
Mounting, mounting still, triumphant, on his torn and broken wings!
2.4k
Box fitted vans moving on the prowl.
Waiting for these kids in an easy take
Preteen gangster violence,
With your lovely daughter playing jail bait.
We're all thievish wolves,
All hungry for more, we're hungry for more.
So please tell me that this is under control.
As our sons sniffing the product you were forced to recall.
Please tell me that this is under control
while your misses is prostituting just to feel at home.
Please tell me that this is under control
While my darling little princess is lying tagged by the toe.
Our therapies are burning and our do hearts do swell,
Which has got us in love with these feelings, that we've never felt.
And I'll take these violent words as nothing more then a test.
Try to feed me please for this is nothing more then a crimson mess.
This nuclear family
Is decaying
Right in front of me,
Right in front of me.
Covered by the trace in the hallow moonlight, pack of wolves at our back.
Some one calls out in silence, are fresh killers what we lack?
We're ragged fools, just fear in the fold only to feel at home.
Our therapies are burning as our do hearts do swell,
Which has got us in love with these feelings, that we've never felt.
And I'll take this fermented world, right off my chest.
Then lead you to the ruins, for the better I digress.
Now forgive me, this is how the story goes.
Feeding in the innocent stripped to the bones.
Please tell me that this is under control
While your misses is prostituting just to feel at home.
Please tell me we are under control.
Swinging from the gallows, caught by the throat.
Jan 30, 2014
Jan 30, 2014 at 6:17 PM UTC