Orangekoolaid

Baby girl, you know you mean the world to me Why don't you come here and sit down on my knee? I'm sorry baby girl, but I'm the leader of this family. Daddy daddy no, daddy daddy no, please don't hurt me! You know I love ya, babe, but you're just a child. listen to your daddy girl, you're way too wild. Why don't you come here and sit down on my knee? Baby girl, you know, you're no good to me. And I cried Daddy daddy no, daddy daddy no, please don't hurt me. Daddy daddy no, daddy daddy no, please don't hurt me. And he said silly little girl, nothing in the world, will change your family. And if you run and hide, swallow all that pr

The clock ticks, never past two AM. Closure - is that what this is? My hands are covered in blood, and in my dreams you cry to me and tell me it's alright. We're alright. Oh, but the letters tell me we are far from what once was. My churning stomach accepts this as an antacid. Blink once for yes, seven for no. A mind erase for the poor and heartbroken masses, a drunken farewell to these images of yester year. Not in the budget, I see. Tonight will be the last night I care. I said, tonight will be the last night I care.

Sometimes to feel is all together a terrible thing. To cry at the mere notion of sobreity in a world so full of mercy, yet so full of crime and poverty. Should I write your name on the dotted line? Gluttony is fashionable and we are on the runway, teetering over the edge into sin, simmering and hot on the burner. Democracy seems lost in today's catergorization of human kind. Or have we forgotton what once was? What may be? Addicted to power and saturated in commoner's blood, we shall rise up and commit the mistakes so many before us have. Just give us your name and we'll be on our way.

Preacher man took me by the hand, And said whatcha gonna do with that loaded gun? Why don't you forget about those problems, honey, Whatcha gonna do with that loaded gun? Just find your own way home, Mmm-hmm, Just find your own way ho-o-ome. Its been 20 years since that day and still, Im standing here at the top of this hill, Looking down the barrel of that gun, Thinking that everything's done, and been won, Well I don't know the stories But ive heard all the lies. I tuned in and looked into your eyes. You sounded kind of funny choking it up, And I just stood there, not giving a fuck. Well if there's good and evil, And evil p

B          L              U                        E     eyes, You're just a boy.                           Invisible in plain sight. The essense of sex,           with a bittersweet aftertaste.  Sorry for the whispe

My throat is dry with anticipation, arrival or dead at dawn. My knitting needle is tired from stitching too thin. I am too young for such thoughts and troubles. Weaknesses are for the weak, and I am such. He's got a crooked smile and a handsome approach. A broken looking glass tells me I am treading too close to the edge. I teeter, but never fall in.

I've tasted sewage, Dripping out of my mouth, these words, like garbage. I see the photos you so kindly cut me out of. Decades will pass, and you will miss those old reminders. Yes, we were friends, yes, we are enemies. But the good times still are concrete sidewalks of former streets on which we strolled. You once were the most important thing to me, But do I miss you? No. I miss the old you, the you that was sweet and understanding. Caterpillars change, I into a butterfly, you into a moth. A sunny storm is still a storm no less. I'll drink to metamorphosis, but it's too bubbly for my liking. Bad choices and silken handkerchiefs

Fuck society, and it's level minded one track cartwheels. Paved streets walked on by clowns and Politians. These are the pathways on which we shall stand. Against, or together? Peasants still beg, honest men still work. Children play in city parks, and nightfall isn't flavourful in this city. Dark colours and seemingly innocent pedestrians. Guns, protecting and interrogating. Ironic jokes echo so loud. Stand tall, truth seeking men and women, leave those desk jobs and put the pencils down. Time won't hold peace, cannot accept or decline. Overpowered, under paid. Packed tightly into little boxes, raging away at the system

Silence, it is the wind tapping his nearby window. I feel the rustle of the sheets, warm body heat dancing on my thighs. The alarm won't sound for another hour. Risen sun, late starts are our sunday ritual. Roll back over, enveloped in your scent. Would be my favourite moment, if not for the ones made before we fell asleep. Gentle breathing, we don't need to speak in raspy morning tones. Naked, comfortable, skin to skin never felt so routine. If pillows could talk, I know they'd say the dirtiest things. Love is this and this is love. Late starts are our sunday ritual.