I’ve always wondered
What it’s like to be myself
Openly and honest
And not hiding behind bookshelves
Waiting for someone to see
And let me into their heart.
A guy is knocking
At the front door again
Asking for that little girl
That I once was
And screaming at me
To go hide again
Behind those bookshelves
Because how dare I try
To be myself.
I had a vision
Of crimson vines
And blackened sleeves,
And pastry palms
Holding strawberries.
If I turned my heart
I am thinner than I thought:
Though my scale says I'm not,
I can see the sour fruit I've caught.
In the spring, the flowers call
Like I could be King of them all,
Burning in the sun before the fall.
not a cola or a root beer;
something in between
like a tortured machine—
it will power down soon.
that tang on your tongue
is from my chewed up wires,
lightning should show through smoke
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