Monday, December 17, 2007

Spread the ashes of the colors over this heart of mine.

This heart of mine.

I cut it out,
place it on a sheet of white paper,
on a table,
in the middle of the room.

I take a chair.
I have an ashtray,
a glass of red wine,
an acoustic guitar,
a suitcase of memories,
and a bleeding chest.

This gives me a time line,
to say what I have to say.


There are dreams like echoes,

[he's got a Hell of heart, he just might not show it a lot of the time]

faded watercolours,

[that's well and good, but why don't you care about ME?]

pages yellowed with age,

[I know Spring is your favourite time of year x]

dead flowers,
dry earth,
a broken stone,
a lie to one's self.
The most powerful of all.


I live my life for you.

[I'm bleeding fast now and dizzy]


But I don't know who you are.


You drive me,
inspire me,
ignite me,
excite me,


but I still don't know who you are.

And that's all I needed to tell you.


I'm never going to stop trying to find out
who the Hell you really are.


I smoke,
drink the wine.

I cry,
open the suitcase,
look through the photos.

I write,
pick up the guitar,
and sing.

I reach for my heart,
push it back in,
and read the patterns left on the paper.

it says:

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