Winter came to a turtle's shell,
it cracked open, leaving a winter hell.
Fossilized and intact, left it in it's own grave,
to be founded by some older, more mordern face.
I drank the juice from a golden cup,
marked into my hand. They say, "The forks
are the best in tossing salad,"
but I think I can handle
no metal for now.

Silverware crashed into hair
and oceans of a blinder state
covered the lines in my face
I couldn't care how it fared,
no mirrors to look and stare.
My palm is like a bayonet,
I hunt and kill with my two there.
I sing and sing, no guitar or strings,
just my chords right here,
and I pointed to my throat and wiggled my hand.

She laughed and sang, the harmonies
crowded the air, so loud and clear;
without a doubt.

I watched the movements
of the palm trees sway,
in the sunlight, imagining
where'd it been, somewhere somehow
growing there, with roots that dug deep beneath,
I soon learned, when
I unearthed one from the soil I knew
with some intruments she invented.
And grammaticals to call it then, I fail
to realize how it had been.

I know things by name.

Tired of walking in circles,
the water washed away.
No edge to fall into the dark,
just circles to walk across.

If you get there fast enough.

Quote by icaneatcatfood
On second thought, **** tuning forks. You best be carrying around a grand piano that was tuned by an Italian
I liked this. A nice structure, and a lot of the lines really stuck with me.

'I sing and sing, no guitar or strings,
just my chords right here, '
Quote by sheumack111
I allways found that having sex while listening to Tool/Planet X/Dream Theater was hard because every time you tryed o keep the beat they would change time sig, then you would get pissed off and then loose your mojo for the nite.....

I fucking Lol'd