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another work in progress. comments welcome. its a very rough draft...don't get too nervous...its really rough i know.
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The light on low So my eyes don't burn Hair is wet I am clean again. Music is loud My eardrums burst Flecks and flakes, My skins just hurts. It is red from heat It is not burnt. Burnt to the end. It smells sweet My head hurts My brain is mush. I don't know how to think Wires disconnected Electric shocks to all. The current washes through And you start to feel like you. The light on low I don't think I'll sleep Sick of a song It plays again. My veins are blue and green They hurt. Pummeling through Red blood cells soar. Really blue Oxygen hits Blue turns red. They flow again. Open wound Hurts til I laugh. Yellow teeth Like a broken calf, And I laugh. The light on low I sing by myself In silence. Til it hurts. So I laugh. I live in a rusty lung. Its quiet inside. Lots of blue Runs through. Rusty lung, my home. Rusty lung, my home. The people inside scratch out. Like a fetus bursting through To new life. It burns And I laugh. Rinse and repeat. my rusty lung, my home. The light on low So my eyes don't burn Hair is wet Music is loud My eardrums burn Flecks and flakes My skin just hurts. It is red from heat. It is not burnt. Burnt to the end It smells so sweet. My head hurts My brain is mush. I still don't know how to think. |
Submitted on 2009-06-05 23:13:04 Terms of Service / Copyright Rules
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| This is how I may have written it: lights low so my eyes won't burn - hair wet from the stream in the hurst. music is loud while eardrums are aburst red epidermal 'cause of the heat sweet redolence wafting adrift, setting out from my skin. head hurts - mushy brains. It's all short circuiting the ebb washes away.. The lights are low and insomnia plague my deferred sleep; my head is heaping itself against a wall beating itself to the same rhythm of the same song - the blood cells therein become blue of emeses. laughing, singing alone in stark silence the pang of my rusty lungs twangs as I cough - my fingers feel blue from all the running through my wet hair. maybe they need thimbles to keep the people inside from scratching out the fetus growing. into a new life. I laugh at the irony... I am not alone, not quite - not like the silence that once held my hand and now hangs by the juice bar prowling again. [You know what's really rough? Your education. This was like reading a preschool book. Simple words. Attached by one space. More would be too much. You know? Only this one caters to those young will-be 8 year old pubescent girls who need to watch out for rookeries]. PedPoet. | Posted on 2009-06-07 00:00:00 | by pedestrianpoet | [ Reply to This ] | |
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