It is getting sick of your own songs
It is persistent and seven years long
It is the face, the hands, the hips
It is nature's taste on your lips
It is a soft touch sustained
It is acoustic runs in the rain
It is the silence at 3 .a.m.
It is sleeping in the B.M.
It is the stare shot across the room
It is the melting smile that ensues
It is forgetting all that was said
It is letting it happen again
It is reading in wishful ways
It is a dull aching that stays
It is staring at a blank screen
It is saying meaningless things
It is me digging my own grave
It is telling myself I've been brave
It is the ultimate slowing down
It is something that needs help now.
1 comment:
This is nice.
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