| My words are not as brave as my thoughts |
| First season I cannot bring myself to do what I should only lament only torment myself with slow days that cover me like honey drowning me until my skin is more golden sweeter to your tongue so long that it seems like the first Spring winds carry me and my pages surrounding me with pollen stinging my eyes where the skin had decayed Warm dreams make me sweat in my bed and rain when they touch my heart I cannot bring myself to an end only a door that remains heavy to push adamant to pull There's moisture in the sky and I'll wait for it to wet me and renew me touch me where I had forgotten I could be touched Amnesiac and insomniac is how I pass my days in the middle of my world No extremes to speak of only balance painful balance devoid of sensation in my veins, on my lips racing across my fingertips If only I could be wanted again I would tear myself to the right to be abandoned again I would fall into the left So, bring moisture to me cover me with honey and pollen and I'll be sweet to you, new to you and look at you with life and not with distant eyes |
| This river runs through me I call her my muse she calls on me to speak her views She finds colors in my grays takes me and berates me until my fingers are red and my mind is blue |
| Complicated I've got this elaborate face that I put in place I take reputations and make them an arm as a method to keep me away from harm so I can swim against and always resist the pain of having no name |
| A modest abode When do you ponder that which you can't digest under day's light. When you smoke a cigarette at hours of the night that were meant to remain unnamed. Futures and pasts whirl in front of you, enticing you to ponder, understand and digest. Where do you find the place to ponder and wonder about how much longer until you surrender to the night's light that takes you to a place where you are your past, where you are your future. I call it an insomniac's paradise, where I am sloth and glutton, pride and envy. You call it bedtime |
| Borders that aren't Mexican Bring me to an absolute limit where my mind falls from my words and I fail to know the difference between the thoughts of my critics and the thoughts of my mind Surrender to me a place when I can longer stand by my legs and watch them walk along the path that I did not choose This place should be beautiful inciting of imagination so my outside looks like my inside when I turn myself around and follow my shadow instead |
| my name is Picasso and I am fractured like war |
| timeless I still remember you burning laughter into my dreams stirring warmth so it would flow through my hands when you touched them, when you kissed them when you made them a part of your own I still need your love on my neck, on my face below my senses deep down inside of me |
| Through your kiss I taste your eyes as they make me beautiful On your skin, I smell your hopes our dreams, as they crash through your warm hands In your embrace, I forget to have regrets |
| Difficult I'm thinking I'm difficult to define whenever I peel back these layers of skin, I just find more more walls in my veins that restrict me and criticize me I always feel like I'm being critiqued subjugated, castigated because my heart is not close enough for me to reach and my arm is always serving to bay It's an excellent pay that conscience offers as wage just keep one's self in line clean, ongoing and pursuing what no one sees as truthful or sincere just a pursuit of a dream as far away as an arm's length or a heart Inspiration is tricky and difficult to define it has emotions and a heart a brain that parts readily with your passion in order to find a higher ground that's dry from wet impulses and desire It's just a thought it's harder than I thought to define what I think might be the next big wave of movement in my veins will it be some poetry or will it be love relocating again, next to me, far away me travelling with me because that's what it thinks I want it to do not so simple, not so clear not so short that I would overlook it in a winter's blizzard or a southern breeze Yeah, I know what's true I know how far my hand can reach my arm can bend how many walls I can build in my brain so perfectly tall and I'll make them fall when I think this world is ready to see them |