Delta40
09-15-2011, 06:02 PM
I'm not crying
just smoking and drinking
losing myself to insect mating calls
and irksome hayfever tears.
Red, dry, and itchy till at last they water
to escape drop by tiny drop
smearing my mascara so I look
like a tragic destiny.
Why won't the moon kiss
spill hope onto my fading body?
Stream and flow of emotion
becomes pollen sneezed at 70kmh.
You need eye drops for that says a passerby
A cheap inflatable boat but he cannot rescue me.
Aren't I the biggest ship in the night?
The Suburban Titanic splashing through Shiraz
dances in the park, sailing dumbly through the dark
then tumbles down the common.
The bottle is smashed on my bough.
All my journeys are like the Titanic
so I relax and slide down the makeshift ramp,
imagining that streamers will celebrate this old steamer.
In the park a sea of strange faces race like a regatta
to weigh anchor safely in the dock.
I stumble alone over moss covered rocks, hit icy cold frames
and tear my breaking heart open.
That is the eternal fate of Titanic souls,
to spill out and sink grasping futily for a lifeline.
A rusty old roundabout creaks under my drowning weight
while my fingers desperately tap an SOS message
on the termite infested wood.
Honestly, will nobody out there here my call?
Finally, this Titanic moment submits to all things
and sinks further under the nauseaus waves of Shiraz
because history knows you can never go back
to how it once was.
just smoking and drinking
losing myself to insect mating calls
and irksome hayfever tears.
Red, dry, and itchy till at last they water
to escape drop by tiny drop
smearing my mascara so I look
like a tragic destiny.
Why won't the moon kiss
spill hope onto my fading body?
Stream and flow of emotion
becomes pollen sneezed at 70kmh.
You need eye drops for that says a passerby
A cheap inflatable boat but he cannot rescue me.
Aren't I the biggest ship in the night?
The Suburban Titanic splashing through Shiraz
dances in the park, sailing dumbly through the dark
then tumbles down the common.
The bottle is smashed on my bough.
All my journeys are like the Titanic
so I relax and slide down the makeshift ramp,
imagining that streamers will celebrate this old steamer.
In the park a sea of strange faces race like a regatta
to weigh anchor safely in the dock.
I stumble alone over moss covered rocks, hit icy cold frames
and tear my breaking heart open.
That is the eternal fate of Titanic souls,
to spill out and sink grasping futily for a lifeline.
A rusty old roundabout creaks under my drowning weight
while my fingers desperately tap an SOS message
on the termite infested wood.
Honestly, will nobody out there here my call?
Finally, this Titanic moment submits to all things
and sinks further under the nauseaus waves of Shiraz
because history knows you can never go back
to how it once was.