23.1.11

Anonymous.

It's got to be some kind of dream.
I'm runnin' into somethin' I don't see.
She's begging for some kind of relief.
But the only thing she's grabbing for is me.

I don't recognize.
The sun without the flies.

You aren't as beautiful as you scream.
They stained your skin, you scrub until you bleed.
It's a falsified prophecy.
You're becoming who you thought you'd be.

Sorrow made of an observation.
They tell you things to make sure that you listen.

You became. Something new.
The sun was overused. 

Questions that you never seemed to know. How to.
Understand, so you lived it. All through.

Your words. Are made of dust.
Your teeth began to rust.






No comments:

Post a Comment