I write with limited expressions and long forgotten honesty,
all shaken in a cocktail of innuendo
and dead flower pointlessness.
the scent of a passing stranger on a tube station platform.
she smells somewhere between heaven and a better place.
traces of a past that I am not quite sure really happened.
a face crafted by an artist who cared.
she drenches angels with self doubt.
why don't I know you?..
maybe your hand slipped from mine whilst I wasn't looking.
I started writing to find you.
I wrote some lyrics.
It will be our song that will never be sung...
....tragic but poetic.
a vase full of dead roses that never loved me.
are you the last of the unblemished roses?
and is it nice being adored?
well, at least falling apart has soul.
each night I drip in insomnia.
In my cracked sleep I dream of you. It's a charitable psychosis.
there are kisses that will never find the lips for which they were intended.
the brutal emptiness of a one night stand, not desired.
I fell in love with you and hated the world for it.
but I don't know you...
and never will.
she dances through my life...but she doesn't know it.
she sang for me once and it broke me.
her pale flesh a canvas for a fucked up artist.
painted finger nails waiting to scratch the life from this life.
perfection is over rated
like tea with sugar and nicotine.
I would drink from you if you allowed me.
I would worship at the church of your dirty laundry.
whisper
never shout.
love is loud enough as it is.
the scent of a passing stranger.
misguided lust from an innocent pen.
I write with limited expressions and long forgotten honesty,
all shaken in a cocktail of innuendo
and dead flower pointlessness.
© Owned by Boris Danski Written by Tim Roberts March 2012 ©
