after all the jacks are in their boxes
and the clowns have all gone to bed
you can hear happiness staggering on down the street
footsteps dressed in red
and the wind whispers mary
a broom is drearily sweeping
up the broken pieces of yesterdays life
somewhere a queen is weeping
somewhere a king has no wife
and the wind, it cries mary
the traffic lights, they turn blue tomorrow
and shine their emptiness down on my bed
the tiny island sags down stream
’cause the life that lived is,
is dead
and the wind screams mary
will the wind ever remember
the names it has blown in the past?
and with this crutch, it’s old age, and it’s wisdom
it whispers no, this will be the last
and the wind cries mary
essentials+
teenage, female, born november ninth, taken, a queen.
loves+
music, photography, art, reading and writing, cities, transit, swearing,food, someone.
go to hell+
guilt, pity, liars, tooth aches, hair getting caught and pulled, moths.
NOTE: i don't write very much anymore. everything i seem to do gets worse and worse with each attempt. it's all full of wishy-washy barely there similes and drawn out descriptions to make up for the fact that it lacks anything even related to structure. it reads like pretentious tripe and no one will give me a critique. so i am giving myself one.
so, don't expect anything for a while. unless maybe a miracle decides to drop by and i can magically write something that isn't a load of g-a-r-b-a-g-e.
xoxo,
ama.
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