huh?
Seriously, what is this? Besides grammatically incorrect?
Little black balloons cavorting around as my green needles tell them show them force them that resistance (with an "a") is futile. Puncturing old wounds, more salt please, singing without words, these are the only options as worms squirm away from the eyes. Fetal positions hurt the bones, they shake with a passion that cannot be denied. The only things to remain in my open hands, palms up to face you tall, are your stains, white and red and transparent. Journeys on ponies and dragons blur from biting vipers, venom dripping down missing appendages. Bandage, bandage, use a bandage before it's too late, before the wind's opera brings in the scents of black roses and white lillies. Nod and don't blink to the dynamics floating and penetrating heads and hearts, waves lapping and licking and bucking and sighing.This is where truth is found, in the crash and the foam. This is where the color and the sound reach you, where you smell and feel the fingers caressing each note in a subtly dramatic crescendo. When the glass shatters, all the senses fall out and the pieces attach themselves to hosts, to carry them back to the sea or into the sky. Do you remember where your angel fell? Can you find her and save her and hold her, or have you forgotten her passion and mistakes? She never had wings anyway. Those green glades and swaying branches that never kept secrets are full of pulses, beats keeping unnatural rhythms under a sky with no stars. The dead leaves crunch and bite, telling you and me and no one else: give in, fall down, don't think, just breathe. You can't follow me into the air, it's not my place. Smile and cry because the world is empty and bloated and open doors flood from the inside out for new oceans to float in.
Welcome to four thirty in the morning, I guess?
Little black balloons cavorting around as my green needles tell them show them force them that resistance (with an "a") is futile. Puncturing old wounds, more salt please, singing without words, these are the only options as worms squirm away from the eyes. Fetal positions hurt the bones, they shake with a passion that cannot be denied. The only things to remain in my open hands, palms up to face you tall, are your stains, white and red and transparent. Journeys on ponies and dragons blur from biting vipers, venom dripping down missing appendages. Bandage, bandage, use a bandage before it's too late, before the wind's opera brings in the scents of black roses and white lillies. Nod and don't blink to the dynamics floating and penetrating heads and hearts, waves lapping and licking and bucking and sighing.This is where truth is found, in the crash and the foam. This is where the color and the sound reach you, where you smell and feel the fingers caressing each note in a subtly dramatic crescendo. When the glass shatters, all the senses fall out and the pieces attach themselves to hosts, to carry them back to the sea or into the sky. Do you remember where your angel fell? Can you find her and save her and hold her, or have you forgotten her passion and mistakes? She never had wings anyway. Those green glades and swaying branches that never kept secrets are full of pulses, beats keeping unnatural rhythms under a sky with no stars. The dead leaves crunch and bite, telling you and me and no one else: give in, fall down, don't think, just breathe. You can't follow me into the air, it's not my place. Smile and cry because the world is empty and bloated and open doors flood from the inside out for new oceans to float in.
Welcome to four thirty in the morning, I guess?