Dried silver serpent on my face.
Make-up messed up from rug burn.
Trail comes from my mouth and misses my eye.
Another night, remember; haze.
Only in my undergarments; pink and black laced.
Cold sweat, easy access, still spent.
Do you know what day it is sun?
Do you care what day it is sun.
Has all these milleniua, turn you like a human being?
A man that works in office cubicle,
typing away a repeated sentence that no one will read.
Knowing he must work, but not knowing what for;
has it become mundane, sun.
I should be getting dressed, but i'm thinking about a personified sun.
I bet he would have a bright smile and a warm embrace,
but i'm pretty sure he would be hot tempered, but I like to tame.
Isn't that a problem, i'm just borderline sane.
Ten digits and the words "call me" are left on the table.
What is it with the number ten, ten fingers, ten toes,
rating a person one through ten, ten being the best.
Ten digits being the nessecary combination to operate a telephone
or cellular device, to help communicate with another person.
Connect with a person...
Do I really want to be with another?
can't even stand being by myself.
Mostly scared when I am lonely
Yearning thought: don't be a phony
Slowly wanting intoxication
Earning nothing through this dedication
Lightly thinking: is this enough
Feel my heart, the beats are tough
The nail color that glisens in the sunlight,
the unchipped parts anyway.
Like a guitar with four strings;
It would be a pain, but if you try, you could make a harmony.
...Only if you try...