I've been working every day chasing that carrot on a stick
I knew if I had the right tools I could always get my fix
But no one told me I'd never get any deeper than this
Yeah, they just tell me how beautiful I am
and never speak to me again
I couldn't even count the number of tendernesses
and it wouldn't even matter since
I could hardly point out any that are relevant
now and then we speak in my dreams
and I record moments and remember briefly genuine intimacy
but mostly my hands are empty
and my passion is driven into objects and motions
and given away cheaply at a minimum wage
and I try to find closeness, enveloped in a lilac scented breeze
or leaning on my friends for just a minute,
clutching my beer
passing a cigarrette,
holding on, on the dance floor
but I always go back and take one scent
of the only thing that ever looked like security
in wolf's clothing, and each time I think
maybe it will matter
maybe in the morning it will feel like something actually happened
but I wake up dizzy and sick from being torn from the archives of my subconscious
and nothing is different
No comments:
Post a Comment