What's In A Word? She Asked. As She Smiled At Her Work. |
Doesn't your conscience
eat away at your soul...
Your eyes,
they match your mothers...
Pink.
Soft...
Trust me.
He lingers...
Smoke billows smoothly,
From Kirsten's mouth...
Drip, Drip,
The liquid sky slips...
No more string for protection,
Shame...
"Dear Lord"
She said...
Little Bird,
Little Bird...
His hatred echoes through these walls,
His walls...
Any one of us could die tomorrow without being able to do with our lives what we wish to. No one should plan decades ahead when you can't count on being alive. |
Maybe there's a little bit of filth inside all of us. Tediously hidden my morals and supposed conscience. |
Some call the process of living conforming, I call it adaption. |