This shit doesn’t
make sense anymore
The spinach is
in the shape of clouds
And the worms
rise to the morning moons.
Garbage fills my
mind, instead of sweet
Thoughts of
yesterday’s accomplishments
The tile floor
is colder than an ice cube.
When you change
your eye color, you can
Talk to me about
our guitar dreams and
The taste of
music. When it comes down
To it: does she
even love you in the dark?
No comments:
Post a Comment