Low Road, by John Maher Subscribe to rss feed for John Maher


Works in ways,
Strange, long days seems a short gain,
Marks of stress swirl through,
Painstaking waves blood-stained
flash back re-occurring spells
Sins embedded again and again
No comprehension face sunk in,
Weak responsibilities surface
Darkness within chokes us again
Cries of action kick you in your face
Cranium swells the circumference overwhelms suffocation
within
Not what one thought
Looking back at the end
Vulnerable flesh, puked colored skin
No where to run
When you start at the end
If ever betrayed by your own kind
Near-sightedness, no respect within
Not knowing ones own smell of deceit
Looking not far to find what he seeks
Fear of turning
Tripping on your own feet
No respect of space and time
Hmm
Fucking stuck, fucking paved your own path
Fucking poor soul
Floating in time on the day
When you find your place in line
Heartburn starts smoldering on your fines
Smoldering fumes, the stench of death on your hands
The belief in nothing finds the ashes to your feet
Happiness of little meanings
Today finds your eternal stay.




Posted: 2011-05-08 09:32:44 UTC

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