And a slight hint of stone;
Please pick up the phone.
London bright-lights and an island-nations dreams,
Slip straight out the door;
And leak onto the floor.
The decay under cupboard hinges,
The place you can't clean,
Does that not sound serene?
That state of mind where other people seem so distant,
That you forget who you are,
As if you've been replaced with tar.
The world you knew,
It's not so blue;
In anything but color and looks;
The land you sail,
Is not from that where you hail;
Your chasing the worlds tail.
The car exhaust,
Just as marring the cost,
The short drive of calm and of something so lost.
The broken soul,
At the fast food restaurants toll,
Sped this world up only slightly before.
The systems flash blue,
Giving me permission too,
Find the pedal,
Hit the gas,
No more sitting back and allow pass.
Blind cyclops are the former depth perceptions grasp,
Cus life is just one long time lapse;
Tell me things, I'll ignore,
I know it'll open some kind of door.
I know somewhere, someone has,
Tripped on mental signals and,
Can't get back up to find their way,
Or tell the world what they got to say.
Please leave,
The virtual world alone,
Please let,
Me finish my snow cone,
Please fall,
Into the waters calm,
Please call,
If you wish to read my palm;
My palm.
No comments:
Post a Comment