Italics- OnSlaught
Normal- Poeta
She left with my pride.
Running away gasping, while she has me laughing,
grasping onto a moment in time to catch the sun passing
it's fun when you're on top, but when your lucks gone flop
and drops to the floor, broken standing at her door,
demanding she lets you in, but no, she'd rather you
alone together with sin, the weather caves in, then falls
on my parade, i throw a bottle of jack at the sky...
almost as a trade; yet foremost i'm a slave, of my own device
heart protruding from that sluts hormonal vice.
she has my mind trapped, strapped to maps, just to find
direction, but as my spine snaps back i find a sense
of mis conception towards a view that money is everything ,
instead of a brother that fucks well, but could never pay
for your wedding ring, but would sing, just to see you smile,
and hold you in his one room apartment, kiss you for a while...
the alarm clock rings, but it stings my ears, water bouncing
of my cheeks, like i've got springs for tears, and it stains
these years, as i sub-stain to follow my peers, even with
a bad influence for desert, i don't want an ounce of pity
from you jerks, i just want a side order of self worth.
An everlasting over-cast in his concience, the aim never
far from a certain boulder-dashed nonsense;
A glazed stare better fitted for ceramic figurines,
and dispersed thoughts long for a memorandum of routine.
This bottle top locked in a mottled rotting of mind,
with gaunt fingers clocking the pan of bile riddled upset -
Up gets a cracked man who's mind has been corrupted
A sepia scene - yet bottle green, of dying floorboards,
patterns trail, of a boy who sings with all the colors in his
heart; brush strokes, as he chokes from tightening the
strings on his mellow guitar.
Where the sky seems to ball and weep her name, he throws his
gaze up and catches sight of the ground he aims
to reach, but never will, because his hands are
full with a bottle and the label's sweating;
a run around the track a few times and he can barely
walk, with venomous medicine treading him numb.
His skin becomes to fold under time, the cold arises
to the challenge and races the alcohol to his spine,
with no apparent reason or truth - his trophial life
walked away,
she walked away because material had replaced him.
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Originally Posted by Onslaught
