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where are your morals?
where do you sleep?
in a fine bed or lorals?
or thorns knee deep?
perfection perfected to the rind.
persons lives are so unkind.
to step up or step down.
to live or die
to swim or drown.
possible it is to fly.
when dreaming of anothers sky.
when one hopes the others lie.
dreams may break with one try
keeper of the stolen home.
wanderers would here rome.
the house, made of stone.
keeps them out skin and bone.
yesterdays dreamer screamed
how quiet was his dream.
but to wake to this strife.
the thing called real life.
candy colored love
is like a leather glove.
when new and crisp
you cant tell.
but when wet
it really does smell.
man walks down
into the town.
looks for water.
finds the lords daughter.
love at first sight.
then the first fight.
now she is dead.
and he feels dread.
can't help but to think.
the kitchen sink
was not red
to begin with.
so who is dead?
and where is there head?
scary man made of nothing but shapes
congeal in my room, wearing capes.
what do they want? i will never know.
by this time tomorrow nothing is left.
not even my toe.
can't she see
when she looks at me.
what kind of a man
she made me be.
bugging me will only make
me more likely to mistake
the horrable things he does.
for something with a cause.
 Never Ask Dante · Tue Aug 07, 2007 @ 03:01pm · 2 Comments |
