Woorden: 13 & God. Ghostwork.
hour hero yes, had showed you there'd be days like this...
and you find yourself longing for a certain drastic context
a dreadful circumstance that will tack great lengths onto
your dictionary definition
to soothe your leaden understanding of bread, water, and money
now arriving by an alternate route at where the absence
of such things might leave you
mind you, this is not more rich confession of a child actor
and as you would agree completely with a gift cyst as it appeared in your throat
the decision to further limit the pain registrar
and delight your tiny heart a moment with uncontested omnipresence will...
you've had the wind knocked out of you by something life size
and you're afraid to say to your face
you stretch the pen and cheat the sleep
this sort of evening you want to say something your words cannot
note: which leaves your ghost blowing up globes
tying them off with an x axis c-clamp
and setting them down
for 7 days and 7 nights
you've sewn a cloth copy of your nervous system
to a turtle neck and pair tuxedo pants
outside the city's dry all covered in primer
you have lost control of your hair
yesterday you were shot for a magazine cover
fatigue swapped your body build with all urge and by the door
you heard demo's creaking squeezing a squeal from your guilt
against the clinging teeth of their cd-tray
all beneath the inner half of the door knob
hissing at its other head
hung in the sun
you're staring at a quill as the lump sum of its parts
and it's begun to look brutal
4 walls of day: and that alone
no empty hallway for you bearing the
100 bright light blocking doors of luck
and here in the favor of life i will
contrive no device against expectation, only announce
i have learned to respect the color yellow
for one reason or another.
and in the insurmountable non strength of one's weight
"you're afraid to say to your face
you stretch the pen and cheat the sleep"
since you all alone
has always been such the long audience
you spring forth, full with overconfidence
as if to say...superman.
and you find yourself longing for a certain drastic context
a dreadful circumstance that will tack great lengths onto
your dictionary definition
to soothe your leaden understanding of bread, water, and money
now arriving by an alternate route at where the absence
of such things might leave you
mind you, this is not more rich confession of a child actor
and as you would agree completely with a gift cyst as it appeared in your throat
the decision to further limit the pain registrar
and delight your tiny heart a moment with uncontested omnipresence will...
you've had the wind knocked out of you by something life size
and you're afraid to say to your face
you stretch the pen and cheat the sleep
this sort of evening you want to say something your words cannot
note: which leaves your ghost blowing up globes
tying them off with an x axis c-clamp
and setting them down
for 7 days and 7 nights
you've sewn a cloth copy of your nervous system
to a turtle neck and pair tuxedo pants
outside the city's dry all covered in primer
you have lost control of your hair
yesterday you were shot for a magazine cover
fatigue swapped your body build with all urge and by the door
you heard demo's creaking squeezing a squeal from your guilt
against the clinging teeth of their cd-tray
all beneath the inner half of the door knob
hissing at its other head
hung in the sun
you're staring at a quill as the lump sum of its parts
and it's begun to look brutal
4 walls of day: and that alone
no empty hallway for you bearing the
100 bright light blocking doors of luck
and here in the favor of life i will
contrive no device against expectation, only announce
i have learned to respect the color yellow
for one reason or another.
and in the insurmountable non strength of one's weight
"you're afraid to say to your face
you stretch the pen and cheat the sleep"
since you all alone
has always been such the long audience
you spring forth, full with overconfidence
as if to say...superman.
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