I really hope you don't think I'm serious. I don't really care. Tell me what you like. I'll drop a few comments back.

"Cosmonauts in the Act of Space Exploration"
[Cosmonuts in the act of misplaced admiration]

The typewriter slips.
Clumsy hands and leaden lips
Too heavy to lift or fit any sense of purpose through.


Remember the time you drove eight days in cold snow and hard rain.
To escape the slate and shame of summer love and Autumn's hate.
You never promised it'd end up this way. I could only hope for it.
Heart sank through my stomach full of blood and vomit.
The lion's den full of good intent and the wrong friends.
I wished for every whalebone-beaten drum to play in time
With the steady beat of the heart that's hers and never mine.
The wily whispers of snakes caught in the rose thorns while
You sat perched on your unicorn. All I got was the horns. You whore.
Our love was a poet's war. We slung the most obscure of metaphors.
"You're a painting never finished. Love incomplete.
You lit the match and all you felt was heat. You're weak."
Layers of paper dreams, scribbled in fevered sleep.
I sent text messages of my drawings to you.
Digital imitations. Right picture, wrong hue.
You'd never understand unless you could see the red on my hands.
I made mixtapes of indie bands I knew would make your toes tweak
In your starry-eyed surprise I forgot that I was alive and lived only for next week.
Felt the need to shoot up on dragon's teeth and climbed the stairs without your speed.
I spit on every sick wrong and twist top you left sitting on the kitchen counter.
I never really knew what I was after.

Last edited by NGD1313 at Oct 6, 2008,