All The Dead Muses

The sentences you murmur get entangled with mine, it’s funny,

Almost a coincidence, almost like you’re into this for the new money.

You feel intuitive, just like the paintbrushes between my fingers.

The word on the street is you can’t manage your anger, it lingers.

You grip the wheel until your knuckles turn white when I tease you.

You’re not into people, you’re only into things that please you.

Why am I watching your brain fall apart, why am I even here?

No willingness to fix the issues. No pretend, no love and no care.

But somehow your hold around the folds of my brain is stronger,

It’s puncturing my fragile strings, it’s making the dawns longer.

When the evening rushes towards me, all the notions dissolve.

I let your words speak for themselves

And they never evolve.

-JW

Paint dripping into the grass, paint dripping down the walls.

It’s a scene, it’s a vice you can’t buy in the mall.

The room was all white and we turned it vivid blue –

It’s a parody of the invasion of Normandy, it’s our Waterloo.

The charcoal in my palm tastes sullied and bitter,

Feels as if the story of me was never written.

Colours poured down my spine, colours all over the stage.

With each brush I rip apart, I satisfy my rage.

The ink between your fingers is stickier than nectar

And I bite down with force like Hannibal Lecter.

But I can’t hurt your skin or your skull, or your veins –

Gonna be a cold day in hell when I burn your remains.

My palms draw your lines and lumps for one more time.

Your hair exudes the smell of long broken pines.

Paint leaking onto the floor, paint dripping from your lashes.

You meld into the walls, you vanish in flashes.

-JW

Tag: All The Dead Muses