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Bluelight Crew
- Joined
- Jun 10, 2017
- Messages
- 4,122
surrender
lift your skinny fists up to the heavens
and paint contusions over concrete skies
we can swim in these nosebleed-sunsets
and rub broken glass in raw, open eyes
I tend to get lost despite standing still
born under asphalt and by tar enwreathed
we sleep on the hooks of spurious mercy
I pray to perish by sudden, violent death
loneliness begins with water-rings in tea
and builds into monolithic, 80-foot waves
our cold little hearts yearns to be content
and our minds yearns for suicide-crusades
the hysterics are caged in tranquil repose
heartache's on my skin like wet clothes
you said we drew blood in the name of love
the dusters gave me steel-wire cheekbones
with the fervor of broken hearts, I grip
the feather & tenderly, it cuts through stone
with Blue Level 100's, Vodka & Adderall in
your bag,
you whisper,
“Baby, fuck the martyrs”
I stumble and roll, lost in pockets of the dark
black opium numbs the tender flesh that we rent
we ride above the blood-crusted blackened hooves,
the junkies, deadbeat, me and these malcontents
the tropes that tie the noose shut, and our trident
spear that prongs the tenets we chant until we
expire,
"WORK, CONSUME, PROCREATE"
lift your skinny fists up to the heavens
and paint contusions over concrete skies
we can swim in these nosebleed-sunsets
and rub broken glass in raw, open eyes
I tend to get lost despite standing still
born under asphalt and by tar enwreathed
we sleep on the hooks of spurious mercy
I pray to perish by sudden, violent death
loneliness begins with water-rings in tea
and builds into monolithic, 80-foot waves
our cold little hearts yearns to be content
and our minds yearns for suicide-crusades
the hysterics are caged in tranquil repose
heartache's on my skin like wet clothes
you said we drew blood in the name of love
the dusters gave me steel-wire cheekbones
with the fervor of broken hearts, I grip
the feather & tenderly, it cuts through stone
with Blue Level 100's, Vodka & Adderall in
your bag,
you whisper,
“Baby, fuck the martyrs”
I stumble and roll, lost in pockets of the dark
black opium numbs the tender flesh that we rent
we ride above the blood-crusted blackened hooves,
the junkies, deadbeat, me and these malcontents
the tropes that tie the noose shut, and our trident
spear that prongs the tenets we chant until we
expire,
"WORK, CONSUME, PROCREATE"
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