whatever.
Youthful Dreams of Field-Grown Currencies
The sunset over the angry trees.
The lifeless breath of a breathing sea.
Open spaces,
open doors.
Meaningless shadows of the perfumes you wore.
You never knew that your
emotional enthusiasm could lead to this,
a crying piano and sad violin,
embraced in an extraordinary kiss.
And now, deep inside my lungs,
I hold a dream of high self esteem,
and the buildings seem so small,
like matches in a matchbook
at the end of lonely, narrow hall.
The streets start to tremble and shake.
The whispers of the city
and the sighs it makes.
Shiney copper pennies,
planted in the sewer drains.
A young child's hope
that maybe some day,
money will grow on trees.
And we'll sing ourselves to sleep,
as our imaginations
are carried high by the desiring breeze.
We will not resist,
just grin and forget
the paintings that form into shape
the unpleasant feelings we get
when we think about leaving this place
because we're afraid we might enjoy it.
The sunset over the angry trees.
The lifeless breath of a breathing sea.
Open spaces,
open doors.
Meaningless shadows of the perfumes you wore.
You never knew that your
emotional enthusiasm could lead to this,
a crying piano and sad violin,
embraced in an extraordinary kiss.
And now, deep inside my lungs,
I hold a dream of high self esteem,
and the buildings seem so small,
like matches in a matchbook
at the end of lonely, narrow hall.
The streets start to tremble and shake.
The whispers of the city
and the sighs it makes.
Shiney copper pennies,
planted in the sewer drains.
A young child's hope
that maybe some day,
money will grow on trees.
And we'll sing ourselves to sleep,
as our imaginations
are carried high by the desiring breeze.
We will not resist,
just grin and forget
the paintings that form into shape
the unpleasant feelings we get
when we think about leaving this place
because we're afraid we might enjoy it.