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Old places fade hard, and no matter how long |
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You row upstream, the water still makes waves |
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That carry the rest of us away |
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You are what you weep, from your head down to the sleet |
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Fell, tripped up the stairs to the place |
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Void in all hints of home |
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Watch with your heart, run with your gut, ever so careful not to lose the fragile beauties of motivation |
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A whir of warning winds signal me back to birth |
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Watch with your heart, run with your gut, ever so careful not to lose your mold |
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"They laughed to all the intrusive music |
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They danced hard enough to wake from a non fiction-based nap |
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They killed me when I couldn't be a source of entertainment |
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Strung like a puppet to every degree of debt |
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In social contribution by the migraine" |
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Our fight keeps using a voice that needs rekindling |
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I promised wet weather to myself |
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From the moment I set foot into my own autopsy |
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Past all the shimmer, beyond the urine-stenched conglomerates of those without a set of eyes to make contact with |
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"There is but the utter of all necessaries |
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Pushing ones that brimming light |
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Through the dregs of apartment life |
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A necessity that leaves me short of breath in the end |
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Watch with your heart, run with your gut |
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Primate winds blow me back to old bloodstreams |
