These razorblade perceptions
cut sharply across my eyes.
Bleeding down, drop by drop
the laquer of their lies.
And every shallow sunset
sets the desert down to die.
The end of another day wasted
leaves me sitting here asking why.
And I'm sure there's a point to every poem,
when these words come crashing out.
But I couldn't really tell you
what any of them are about.
There's a song behind every word,
every lullaby forgot.
A sweet melody unsingable
behind every shattered thought.
And these little pieces of instants
go flying out of my mouth.
When everything seems so fake
I feel like flying south.
So I'm sure there's a point to every word I write
and I'm sure somebody someone will read these words.
But for now they see but do not understand...
and still the melody goes unheard.
