there is something strange,
to look to the sun
and see your face
but to look at the stars
and witness your death
and i wonder;
what is the constellations
that make up your soul?
the warm blood i taste
upon your tongue,
or the stars i press
into your flexing flesh?
shit man. what a time to be alive.
when half of the people in this world don’t want to be breathing,
and the others don’t have a choice, choking
on the barrell of the gun put down their throats,
or when a body is put up like a circus showcase and political debate.
what a time to be alive.
She speaks to me fondly of passions and talents, guitars and stars, then stops short and apologises for speaking at all. All because somewhere in her life, someone she loved broke her heart by ignoring her beautiful words and telling her to shut up, keep it down, nobody cares.
People aren’t born sad. We make them that way.