I bought yards of piano wire to lace my boots, to floss my teeth and Ive read ever frame of each bony wrist as these adorn my neck and I ask myself why I listen to the country music telling me why these tears and abuse are like fire christ, its the blank of the tryst where I complain, where I can scan the face, and scan the feet and not worry about what else ever meets Ive got 200 fears and one chance of hope its the bravest scam of my fucking life oh my dear, please open up your fucking eyes and I wonder what would we do what would we do without saloon doors christ, Im desperate, theres no appeasement theres not a chance in waiting Ill carry these scars in a satchel dig up, dig in, lose faith, burn out, head down, broad smile, drink hard, shake hands, sleep bad, turn back, make love, read books, write words, make friends, get tired, and give up and I lost my place every time a loved one was lost or the places in between these arms are like a trial these eyes love action they shunt and mine any fucking regrets say youre godless youre now my blessed saint play my cards right and god willing its fucking death to me its fucking death to me those drunk conversation in the back of my mind and your dark black makeups in the back of my mind the way you held my chin up in the back of my mind and your fucking campaigning eyes in the back of my mind your palm shoving the wall in the back of my mind and the stained tip of your tongue in the back of my mind and theres another, your broken heel in the back of my mind and your fucking gaping mouth still opens in the back of my mind your bleeding knuckles in the back of my mind and I repeat myself your fucking campaigning eyes live in the back of my mind the back of every love song every broken heart I laid myself away with country songs about tears and abuse and I lost my fucking place every time a lost love was forced centrestage stages, trials, trials youre the one who wept the one who grieved deafening steps and claps to your soliloquy the clap of hands as I scan the face your face Ive seen you wafting up in a plume of almond smoke behind me just where you set up a chair but you dont have the fucking guts and anyway this mirrors telling me that I wont care Ive been there youth confused about hair and if it hurts comedic so I turned away from the mirror and this is guilt, this is guilt the edges of my eyes were screaming at me, so dont lie I told you once that its not safe to try to stuff someone into your face but you dont have a fucking clue and you dont have the fucking guts to tell the fucking truth yellow fever ten times a year believe in fear I smashed you is it a mirror, or is it truth Im seeing here before me hold a candle up to this flue I looked again into its face and the mirror is whispering to me again, youre not there so dont lie and the back of my throat gather children witness me fuck myself but you dont have a fucking clue and you dont have the guts to tell the fucking truth
fucking, back, mind, scan, campaigning