(no subject)
so if i rode in taxis in now york
and i smelled the food sold on the corner,
would i be thicker?
would my words mean more?
would my face not bother you or me anymore and fever blisters
those eye sores. would they not make you look away? would you loving me be enough
to make me not even worry about my breath?
if i paint on a face before yours i can see
i dont really know you, nor do you know me.
who lives in mascara lined windows and boxes of cream? who lives in places incapable of dreams.
i hate rhymes but i cant stop
my fingers are swelling and my eyes are telling
me that i have something to taste and spit and say
hit me if you dont like it but i cannot know the
glow you show, hide, take away, and kill
you waste my life with yours wasted.
you hurt my skin.
with your dark melanin. your envious frame.
your eyes i would steal
like a country fair prize
winning
hog to be slaughtered.
i smell cotton candy and apples, they float in barrels nearby.
my hands sting again. and i leave to write french lab manual homework.
the things that sting me most, i want you to taste.
i want you to go there with me. never looking up from the orange we are eating.
my fingers burn.
my mama, my sisters. your heart is fluttering and i see it. i hear that tar inside.
the tear inside.
tearing my paper. my plans. ruining my white tableclothed dreams with your india ink tears.
i cant succeed in this windy life because my family has my tied me down real real hard
tied me down with their rotted umbilical cords. sticky saliva.
they walk in gardens of dying tomatoes and see the sun as always setting.
my soulcar's engine is out of anti-freeze. its almost december. im forgetting.
and i smelled the food sold on the corner,
would i be thicker?
would my words mean more?
would my face not bother you or me anymore and fever blisters
those eye sores. would they not make you look away? would you loving me be enough
to make me not even worry about my breath?
if i paint on a face before yours i can see
i dont really know you, nor do you know me.
who lives in mascara lined windows and boxes of cream? who lives in places incapable of dreams.
i hate rhymes but i cant stop
my fingers are swelling and my eyes are telling
me that i have something to taste and spit and say
hit me if you dont like it but i cannot know the
glow you show, hide, take away, and kill
you waste my life with yours wasted.
you hurt my skin.
with your dark melanin. your envious frame.
your eyes i would steal
like a country fair prize
winning
hog to be slaughtered.
i smell cotton candy and apples, they float in barrels nearby.
my hands sting again. and i leave to write french lab manual homework.
the things that sting me most, i want you to taste.
i want you to go there with me. never looking up from the orange we are eating.
my fingers burn.
my mama, my sisters. your heart is fluttering and i see it. i hear that tar inside.
the tear inside.
tearing my paper. my plans. ruining my white tableclothed dreams with your india ink tears.
i cant succeed in this windy life because my family has my tied me down real real hard
tied me down with their rotted umbilical cords. sticky saliva.
they walk in gardens of dying tomatoes and see the sun as always setting.
my soulcar's engine is out of anti-freeze. its almost december. im forgetting.