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Pure

June 20, 2013

seventyeight

I love you like a T-shirt.
The Bible bland of Generation Blank.
The simple pleasure of holding your hand.
Has turned sticky, sickly sweet within 3 weeks.
I’m bored of you again.
Longing for drama.
And they’re all looking so good.
Well, they would.
Beauty’s easy when you’re holding the camera.
Black Sabbath and beer.
And I wouldn’t call you even if I still could.
“Haven’t you got a lot of books?”
Well, yeah, but I can’t read them when you’re here.
I just got back from work, your hand’s in my shirt.
And you’re wanting to get laid.
I’ve had a whole day of doing what I have to, but at least I got paid.
If I’m gonna get fucked, it’s in my own way.
On my own, often, and on my own terms.
I never noticed those dark hairs on your arms.
You don’t see them from afar.
I wonder if you’ll bleach them if they get worse?
Gravity’s gunning us both to the ground.
One day we’ll have kids, and we’ll love them, instead of each other
The funny thing is, you’ll make a great Mother.
It’s just a shame I won’t be around.

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From → Poetry

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