in fickle bouts of weather, the artist clings to her pen and weeps tar tears.
and she laughs at the crybabies around her because she never really will.
the crocodiles and ticking clocks, and I don't ever want to grow older
I pulled your hair back when you threw up,
and it was true love spread against the porcelain
and I suppose I could want you sometime.
You're just too far behind to tell loose tales; it seems I'm farther up the tree.
The artist found her niche amongst the flower children of her mother's youth
Finding cinnamon boys to inhale and alabaster girls to smooth over,
She leaves no preface or explanation, just fills the tank with liquidated dreaming
and keeps driving past roses and crumpled street signs
I am not connected with her in any way, but I know that one day I will meet her.
It's been a while since I've really used this. I've missed you all, even if I'm the only person who reads or writes in this. Please tell me otherwise. I've missed this feeling.
