Awareness.She writes such lovely poemsMore Like This
But nobody really cares
She hides them all the time
To avoid the judging stares
She wrote one yesterday
About a boy who said he loved her
But to her own dismay
She caught him with another
She wrote one about school
And the words painted on her locker
“No one likes you, stupid bitch.
You’re lucky I’m at soccer.”
She wrote about her parents
And how she wished they were together
But she knows that won’t ever happen
And forgetting’s probably better
Yes, she writes such lovely poems
But there’s so much more to this
See, her pencil is a razor
And the paper is her wrist.
Your Three o' Clock is HereI sometimes put Tabasco sauce on my food. Not because I like Tabasco, mind you. Frankly, I despise the stuff. No, I do it because it makes everything delightfully chaotic for a while. The overwhelming taste on my tongue, the intense need of a drink to obliterate it, the moment of utter sadness at the fact that my food has become entirely inedible. All is wrong, all is lost, and oh, where is my salvation in the form of a water glass? Then it's over. Everything lines up once more; I'll live to eat another unsullied meal on another day.More Like This
I jump into fountains, too. Clothes on and everything. Oh, and I sometimes burst into song in the elevator or the waiting room at the doctor's office.
"Look at that girl," people say. "How crazy she is, or how brave. How little she cares about social norms. She lives in the moment!"
Yes, that girl certainly does. They all go about the rest of the day, the rest of their lives, never knowing that the girl who lives in the moment is as much of a moment
Old Days InnocenseA Little boy, a son of war, anger, pain, and fearMore Like This
walks through a place where the toughest men cry and death roams freely.
"I have a little secret, I have a little secret.
I will hide it. No one can find it. It´s my little secret", sings the kid.
His knees meet the dust,
his eyes meet what is laying on his arms,
his senses meet pleasure.
Shots pass over his head,
and explosions make the earth shiver.
Digs with his own bloody hands
just like a dog will to bury his bone.
Hides his treasure with all the others,
and then runs off, looking for more.
The sniper, observing everything through his scope,
wanders about the reason for this hobby,
about the reason for a limb collection.
Un niño pequeño, hijo de la guerra, la rabia, el dolor y el miedo
camina a traves del lugar donde los hombre más fuertes lloran y la muerte vaga libremente.
"Tengo un pequeño secreto, tengo un pequeño secreto.
Voy a esconderlo. Nadie lo puede encontrar Es mi pequeño secreto", cant