goyoyofosoco
11/30/06, 09:55 PM
In black and white, she looks so good it makes me sick. Not lacking fight, she packs a punch, when slapping you just wouldn't do the trick. She's delightfully atomic, like the time she chose explosion, over dozing off to a future that was looking rosy. She's frightfully demonic, and I guess you could say that she's over-possessive, because I came back, from my slumber, a man possessed. I don't dare call this a secret, because the secret's in the keeping, and I haven't kept a god damn thing since I quit sleeping. I wish this would be quick, like a vapor that is breaking out, on it's own, to create a cloud, that will loudly rain on my parade.
I'm sticking to my sickness, though I feel colorblind, and can't see any of the ills that are ailing me. I'm sticking to my guns, and succumbing to the wonderment that seems to fill the same ship I'm bailing, arms moving fast as they can be. I'm stuck, and even though nothing ever seems to go my way, I'll tread the lake until my head's safely above. I'd stick with you like glue, if you would only tell me to, but, since my confidence is in short supply, I'll slip and slide, and wonder why no one ever sticks with me.
The truth, it hurts like words that someone left inside your chest, either stabbed into you, there, and left, or maybe left unsaid. It could be the last breath you'll ever take, or the hands-down biggest mistake you'll ever make. The phrase that pays, it stays with you, which is probably for the best. The nooses, occupied by hanging men, are hanging in a row of ten, and, for a change, they add another, just for me. The wood that waits there, underneath, endlessly thirsting for our feet, has no idea that we'll never meet again.
In sickness and in health, the best I've ever felt was when my nerves talked my body into a state of shock. I could barely get a grip, but, when I finally did, I grasped you like sailors grasp the shore, as my final place to dock, and something more. The thickness in my head made me keep pulling on the thread, until I couldn't take it, and the taking left me naked and alone. This see-saw will never tip, and I'll never see the hidden levers you pulled (and then reversed) to make me your own.
I'm sticking to my sickness, though I feel colorblind, and can't see any of the ills that are ailing me. I'm sticking to my guns, and succumbing to the wonderment that seems to fill the same ship I'm bailing, arms moving fast as they can be. I'm stuck, and even though nothing ever seems to go my way, I'll tread the lake until my head's safely above. I'd stick with you like glue, if you would only tell me to, but, since my confidence is in short supply, I'll slip and slide, and wonder why no one ever sticks with me.
The truth, it hurts like words that someone left inside your chest, either stabbed into you, there, and left, or maybe left unsaid. It could be the last breath you'll ever take, or the hands-down biggest mistake you'll ever make. The phrase that pays, it stays with you, which is probably for the best. The nooses, occupied by hanging men, are hanging in a row of ten, and, for a change, they add another, just for me. The wood that waits there, underneath, endlessly thirsting for our feet, has no idea that we'll never meet again.
In sickness and in health, the best I've ever felt was when my nerves talked my body into a state of shock. I could barely get a grip, but, when I finally did, I grasped you like sailors grasp the shore, as my final place to dock, and something more. The thickness in my head made me keep pulling on the thread, until I couldn't take it, and the taking left me naked and alone. This see-saw will never tip, and I'll never see the hidden levers you pulled (and then reversed) to make me your own.