There are demons in my garden, Fred.
Green-eyed, evil-spirited, invisible - that chatter muchly.
There are insects in my cookies, posing to be chocolate chips, ready to go through thirty seconds of radiation in the microwave; suicide bombers i say -wanting to spread the infection of the population in me.
There is wine in my brain; red, thick, lumpy with grey cell collaborations. Streaming down the neurotic veins - like a river full of plastic waste, all made unclean by the guilty corpses of human memories.
There are world's in my heart; locked down, banished, quarantined, covered up by layers of broken promises, betrayal, fear, revenge, and truth.
There are marks on my feet. Caused by the thorny trees climbed, the mountains crawled to see the sea of clouds, by sea-urchins on the bed of the oceans bobbed with people I've met - hearts I've travelled through and with. There are marks on my feet - bruises I like, the kind you get when you walk on fire to win the war with the other you.
Green-eyed, evil-spirited, invisible - that chatter muchly.
There are insects in my cookies, posing to be chocolate chips, ready to go through thirty seconds of radiation in the microwave; suicide bombers i say -wanting to spread the infection of the population in me.
There is wine in my brain; red, thick, lumpy with grey cell collaborations. Streaming down the neurotic veins - like a river full of plastic waste, all made unclean by the guilty corpses of human memories.
There are world's in my heart; locked down, banished, quarantined, covered up by layers of broken promises, betrayal, fear, revenge, and truth.
There are marks on my feet. Caused by the thorny trees climbed, the mountains crawled to see the sea of clouds, by sea-urchins on the bed of the oceans bobbed with people I've met - hearts I've travelled through and with. There are marks on my feet - bruises I like, the kind you get when you walk on fire to win the war with the other you.
