

BottleYour heart, I know where it lies And that I am why, why alone I lie Your cold lips like dead fish Unwilling and forlorn The ice on which I press my lips Clench teeth on woes well worn Start a new year with no tears Stolen kisses confirm my worst fears But it’s your lips I beg, beseechBottle
Bite back my own lest dare they reach Look not so appealing So perfect for the loneliness left long without appeasing I’m sick of the cyclical This speed is called breakneck for a reason Smile not I ask of you, for it’s my soul you’re teasing
If up


HolidayIt’s that irking feeling that Your friends don’t really like you And those boys don’t really know you The reason they are flustered is because I’m right You know it’s true The seed you plant between my teeth That itching suspicion that can’t be beat The piteousness that I gag myself Smile as I toast your health Suitable seeing as you me sick False acceptance, a cruel twist on one’s typical trick Oh sweet puppeteer The steps to my preordained dance are loud and clear My expertise being that of the duck and weave Your thoughts and needsHoliday
Unreturned present


WinterThe snow is falling down But things are looking up No really I’m sure of it this timeWinter
And when the cold freezes your heart
I am the ice on which you skate Across the face you love to hate On the tombstone I am the frost For all the causes you’ve already lost I am warm breath on brittle failure
I am the melted, unreciprocated favors
Creeping cold between your ribs The mist that clouds around your lips Cold snaking down your back The sound of the snap when the glacier cracks
Spilling out the solidarity you know you lack I am the rush of feeling


LadyFuck this and fuck that Empty adjectives have no class But that’s how I think and that’s how I’ll act Until something goes my way Or goes anywhere at allLady
I hold no compassion for my language So let these expletives take the fall For my inability to conjure up, recall
Affection with a purpose, with plans for the future
Oh and if only you knew her Lady luck
Her brittle fingers tease the necks of those unable to posses her Whore to the non deserving, tantalizer of impressionable youth Who is to say I shouldn’t have her? Nights like these Where the stran
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