Nothing makes my heart so wild as being
In possession of a potent night,
Racing down the stairs in a nude descension
Shedding and discarding my hide
But the bold strokes crack so quickly and it's
Often that I wonder why
Dripping at the slow motion rate of surrender
Hanging to my bones as they dry
How could I want something more
than a new hell in which to fry
When I see in only black and white
There?s a sinful sort of side of being
so contained, A bit like being lost.
Stumbling through the background like a small town loner
quietly a whispering my thoughts into
my cupped hands, folded and monk-like,
at least thats what i've always said.
How does writing letters from the lonely margins
feel when there is no hair on my head?
Is the solitude I seek a trap where i've been blindly led?
Tell me, where then do I go instead?
When atonement comes in distant waves
I might wait until the next to break
choking through forgiveness at a sun fly prompter
staring through the back of my face.
It's a vulgar, hidden part of being
tethered to the world right now;
spending all my dollars to remain a member,
nothing in my eyes but a scowl.
Do i bother to define myself beyond what they allow?
Have I already forgotten how?