Running to a distance running for what anywhere I go it wouldn't be called home. You wouldn't be there and my heart will have to beat alone and that's fine too but I'd like to think we have many years to go. What am I doing calling you a friend I'm miserable and miss-spoken and here you love me yet. I wish I was seven so you wouldn't have met me because if I fucked up your life your mother would hate me.
I see the World like a shooting star but it does not go far, burned up all the light the wish might not get to fall hard. Black widow babies they’re chasing after me, after me. Why are you smiling? That’s your name written on the grave. Black widow babies don’t slide across the fluid water. It’s poisoning that this house has fallen apart again. Black widow babies run outside before the flames, run to our neighbors. Jenny never cleans anyway.
Sunrise to sunset is where we live in the life of the unrest. Where beauty meets cruelty depending on how you see the reflection. Opened or closed eyes either way we are alive. With traits of the Gods with independent thoughts. Genes from our mothers if we know her or not. Bound to a beautiful time.
Annoyed of self control, too controlled by the insane. Defined by our people then more than just the chemicals changed. I saw the anger in your mind that despised all the rest. Is she a refused realization of a portrait of the young world with a crooked mind? Like, she the world plays innocent to pass the time and what she lost is sent to no return. Accept the only thing that lingers is her annoyance of what is self control.
Slithering like the sins of my soul. I burn like fire too to ash like smoke. The wind carries and yet it leaves my mortal soul. Left with the night air to waist away in the cold. To have a sin saved is still yet another sin to hold.
I bathe in the moonlight only to soak in the night glow. My skin shines with the stars but I have to remain unknown. (I can see the fields below) The wind has died down and the birds have gone home. I'm in my shower looking out from the tall window of my black tower. My body flows in the waves that the speaker plays. As the water drips to the beats of the words to be sang.
Hope breeds eternal misery. An unswept mystery. Dressing up on a Saturday, not forgetting everything. The pretty lights shine but the pretty lies stay away from me. Nothing is more creative than destructive popularity. Forced to fight with the new eyes can be a beautiful tragedy. In Italy you can meet me visiting DaVinci, discussing democracy. Dressing down on a Sunday to look into the mirror and hear what I thought I heard you say.