the stars, the sea, and sleep.

Monday, March 9, 2009

Slow For Crossing (You Talk Too Much)

These candles on my birthday cake
Leave burns only skin deep
And I try to keep things sane
But the task becomes more difficult
When things remain the same.

It's become comfort in habit,
A finger-wagging nun
Shunning my selfish sins
Burning the bastard bins
Because these thoughts don't deserve a breath
So I throw a curse as I breathe your breath.

Spout another to be past about.
Spawned from narcissism
Spawned from sin
Spawned in the dregs of the bastard bin.

I cross your street with a shopping list,
A succession of thoughts,
A pattern never missed,
But its effectiveness is to be marked
Like shooting bullets in the air,
Like talking like there's no one there.

And it's hard to make peace and restock the shelves
When you've made their lives a living hell,
When your dreams don't live past ringing bells,
When your greatest enemy is only yourself.

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