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She wanted the world...
yes...
To hold with both hands,
out,
towards the fire
where the flies take breath.
Every window tells a story and every fly dies a death.
Staring happy moments, sentiments,
right in the headlights.
Where she roams is gutter talk,
poking noses into business and all,
she should stop, relax,
don't play in the road.
For the games she play's,
there is hell to pay.
Life shared out like rotten apples,
sour;
never as inviting
as they seem.
Straight laced, vodka lips;
breathing stains: sleep on nicotine pillows.
Hair dye and black spots, beautiful,
Panda eyes,
watching every move we make.
Swinging doors, hips and alcohol;
I wait in time to see time pass by,
revolve like disco lights
above us.
There you stand, glass in hand and happiness.
Dreaming!
It's all too much
this "dear diary" generation,
10 years late of never.
I hurt, currently adding salt to these wounds.
I am dirty, life is no more
than a 10 minute free view.