I know people who shiver as if the ghosts which haunt them are made from their own stolen bed sheets.
White linen innocence trodden with foot printed demons
Known to traces lipstick kisses on inner arms
Leaving butterfly knifes in stomachs when they get nervous
this is the feeling of new-found love for ourself
but it’s more of a Jeffrey Dauhmer kind of affection because we are loving ourselves to pieces.
unsteady hands which tremor as if Japan’s oscillating mountains reside within their ligaments
making Earth's axis spin crooked with divine smiles known to be the backward bent spines of angels.
golden arches to the pearly gates
where maybe rainbows are strung just to shoot arrows
bound for arthritis stricken joints making praying hands more painful a chore
causing grown men to make childish decisions in the face of new problems resulting from old decisions as their shallow thoughts send them off the deep end.
Ocean worn and liquor cursed bottle messages lost in translation,
slurred between the syllables of
60 men with a tendency to walk crooked, 40 angels smoking blow in the park and 26 devils stuttering bible verses behind church walls
Drowning in tears, rain, salt water or is it just chase, they don’t know any more
lemon twisted
With pinot noir blood pumped through veins
So these Bombay sapphire eyes
Can see one more tequila sunrise.
of soul stirring beauty
And I’ve shaken hands with broken men
And let me tell you there is nothing firmer than the grip of a person barely hanging on.
Hands which are too pre-occupied to realize the holes in mine because I have been nailed to these cross roads waiting for the changes
I have whipped into shape by the pressure to be mature for my age
And when I have fallen I had people tugging at my shoulders just to help me stand to pursue the straight and narrow
But I’m still a little crooked
So I’m hell bent on tomorrow.
the days where these 40 angels dance like the devil to say they got low
With moon light studded earlobes where one small step for man took mankind closer to shaking God’s hand and one giant leap backwards from a firm footing on our own land
We cherish mysteries where lifes unsustainable inhales weeze words of promise to curious minds
because from conception to death we are looking for moments which truly leave us breathless
And though I am asthmatic I take every breath for granted and the only thing I don’t is life itself
as what is breath if it sustains nothing more than yielding finish lines
and hollow day dreams
when we rather sleep to make the time pass faster any ways
though nothing seems to stop the night terrors formed from sleeping beneath my ghostly bed sheets
These 40 angels have news printed demons which taints their white linen innocence
When red lip stick kisses on inner arms turn to butterfly knives in stomachs.
don’t waste worried on days gone by
So please, treat each day like the smoothest whiskey
Forget about chasing the past.
