| She's writing love songs to Nashville
Postmarked with whiskey kisses
When that poison starts to drown her
Like river rocks in an overcoat
Weighed her down to drown like Virginia
The Ophelia of dixieland dreams
Running back to shadows she used to know
Drunk on memories of Tennessee winters
The bitter cold that blankets grey skies
Darkness makes the branches stark
Tobacco in the smokehouses
The flames are flyin high tonight
No one knew she had it in her
Must have hid it in her curls.
Lying on the blankets of her bed
Where so much had occurred before
Spinning webs in the corners of her thoughts
To gather the midnight frost of lonely nights
In the morning dew drops fall
and footprints warm patches of frozen ground
They tell the ending to her story
A path to the water's edge
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| I guess I just assume social networks will be online infinitely.
This must be wrong.
Haven't read or updated this in a long time. It was quite profound reading some older entries.
Made me sad. I miss Brian terribly. Who knew I wrote poems about him? Who knew how in love I really was?
I want to regain my childlike qualities. I want to run outside and not care. I want to be without all this.
I changed my major from fine arts to botany. This has made me happy.
I still want jars of dirt.
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| nothing illustrates apathy more than a sound wave from a single drum hitting a brick wall smothered with the tar stains of history.
nothing ruins my moment of lyrical glee more than xanga taking eons to load what is essentially a crappy version of word mixed with a painfully obvious myspace-esque layout.
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| Benazir Bhutto has been assasinated. A man very close to me has been raped.
Gender roles are ridiculous figments of our collective imagination.
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In the day I hide, am quiet.
The ancestors had vanished.
I don't want to cheat.
Some blamed the cold weather, the long winters, but
how then do you account for the Finns, the
Norwegians, the Siberians. |
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