Jul 25, 2008

I Really Hate Blogging.

Love Machine.
The moon's glaring at me, right in the eyes, and he's not giving up until I break.
But little does he know, that behind these eyes,
there's a courage that no one can take.
The armor I conceal in this heart built to love,
sometimes creeps up my spine like an ache.
From my toes to my elbows, up to my ears,
who often hear the voice of a little bird, watching over those disturbed,
but the sun is still their friend.
The sun will never die, burning bright and clean, rising with me each day,
pour the coffee, machine.
I scrunch up my eyes, because the sun makes you lie,
and all I've heard so far are reasons to die.
Young.
The lords drink from their gourds, and leave the rats to the rest,
but the sewer is filled with passion, and fleeting memoirs of those who confess
to the night, to the moon's dear light,
which rips the honesty from your chest, so you have to wear it around your neck
to show the rest of the world what you're really made of.
Love machine.

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