Monday, January 7, 2013
drunk on illusion
my party stops at the point
where you begin.
I sit on my chin
can't help but wonder what life
has in store.
I don't know if I have enough of me.
plead with my insides to do right
my left turn is always pausing,
almost feels like
that garden that won't grow
you reach for me
touch my hand
and my calm begins to freak
you can always smell violet
when you are being pulled through it
I will always wonder
what heaven thinks while laughing;
the pointing is always some cause for direction
but the laughter catches me off guard
and now my chin hurts,
the ache of you is my comfort.