duminică, 3 martie 2013

Punctured feelings

divided by swords that slice
through time and emotions
without the slightest touch of pride,
I paint my nails green.
catastrophe is at hand
and I'm feeding
pride's foul mouth-
reality is the queen,
but I'd rather sleep
with her youthful thief...
like a soul damned to hand,I cling
to every beating within
the clock's mischievous
to live,
to collide,
to come apart at the seams.
it's hard to breathe when your lungs
are made out of brass and porcelain,
eager to fall and easy to crush
beneath a world that looks
more innocent than it is.
as the sun fades into its
next kingdom,
I tend to my punctured feelings-
on the weak...

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