Being the Illusionist

I.

Some try to find their god in the depths of discussion, but I've got God,

so now I can take it deep without a sound,

the magic of my mouth like an abracadabra shazam. Trick.

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II.

You didn't give me a goodbye kiss, just slipped your hands in my back pockets

and let me do the work. I'll see you around, beautiful, and I know it's just another

lie. But I was silent, lips firm and smooth. Aftershock.

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III.

It must have been your fault, really, because my best friend, she only likes you

when you talk pretty to her (she doesn't like you very much anymore).

I turned up the radio like it would drown you out of my head. Mirage.

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IV.

I must be pretty: you let me tense up your muscles and make you gasp,

with my eyes open I can see your knuckles, ivory white like out of tune

piano keys, I've got control. Illusion.

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V.

And, oh, how you must breathe now, 'cause I've found God, so with my

head on your heaving chest I swallow hard. I can take it deep without a sound,

and all you can call me is baby, baby. Smokescreen.

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VI.

Fix your tricks or that aftershock will slam into you like a desert oasis mirage.

An illusion of my control and I'm just a pretty smokescreen, but, oh,

I take you deep. Lies.

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VII.

Lying as I get my intake of Vitamin C. You laugh and call me beautiful.

I smirk and abracadabra shazam, I disappear like the dirty little trick I am.