Demons Perched On The Picket Fence
The lines on my jeans
are the roads I am traveling
and I have crows on my shoulders,
carting harder burdens than responsibility.
My nails are caked with salt
from the ocean they have formed.
I don't want to be the lighthouse,
watching the ships guide themselves to their own end.
And we crash into ourselves eventually anyway
but it shouldn't mean we need to give ourselves away
to second chances no one believes in.
Keeping on eye on him
just in case the sun begins to set on his anger.
Looking out because she asked me to.
It's cold sitting on his shoulder
and I would like to fly some day,
but if it's not him, then it's another
equally magnetic, equally enigmatic.
I could write about love
it's just too hard to write about the lights in the distance
when I have given all my eyes away to everyone.