Písmák Without
the last drink I never should have drunk the body hidden in the trunkthe habit I can't seem to kick my secrets on the front page every week the car I never should have bought the dream I never should have caughtthe cut that makes me hide my face the party that makes me feel my age Like a car crash I can see but I just can't avoid Like a plane I've been told I never should board
Waiting for the season...
I am writing words that I can'tshow the world at large,because what I write must be censored now. Everything I feel, my outletsare closed off, one by one,be those who wish ill of me. Every line, every page, locked down.
I have so much to say, and I have only faces turning away,deaf ears, I amwatching their backs as they walk away.
Surrender
No, don'tbreathe,yet,it's not that I can't feel you somehowbeside me, inside me,under this pale skin liessomething fragileon butterfly wings,though you never asked for more,I gave you all of mein little gasping breathsand whispers,and it's not that I can't hear youthough you're universes away fromthis storm-tossedheart,not that I can't reach out andtouchyou, yet still you will turn away,I know you will turn away;I can see it on your face,hear it inyour little sighs and your quick darting kiss,thoughyour too-familiar hands areall over thispalefrailskin, don't breathe, don't breathe, becauseit's all too clear when we're not suffocatingin somethingmore than this,when the twilight grows cold,grows old,and I am asleep next toyou,don't think that I don't dream you,your scent breathing in and out ofme,I don't want tohear your breathturn toa sigh,let your breath be fragile,bebutterfly wingstonight.