Well, let the poets cry themselves to sleep. And all their tearful words will turn back into steam. But me, I'm a single cell on a serpent's tongue. There's a muddy field where a garden was. And I'm glad you got away, but I'm still stick out here. My clothes are soaking wet from your brother's tears. And I never thought this life was possible. You're the yellow bird that I've been waiting for; the end of paralysis. I was a statuette. Now I'm drunk as hell on a piano bench. And when I press the keys, it all gets reversed. The sound of loneliness makes me happier. http://www.livejournal.com/users/USERNAMEHERE/info">INFO - http://www.livejournal.com/users/USERNAMEHERE/friends">FRIENDS - http://www.livejournal.com/users/USERNAMEHERE/calendar">ARCHIVE |