That's the best poem about spoons I've ever read. . .
Here's a lyric I sribbled down yesterday. . .
Where are you?
Lost in your own eyes.
You should be careful,
You might end up living life
In a rented room in the east end.
A gritty town where you once played
The blood stains are still there. . .
And there are screams hidden in the walls
The backstreet alley
Still smells of almonds,
The peeling room
Where you stuck the wick
In my little heart
And lit it. . .just to watch it burn
You lit my heart to watch it burn.
You're still lost in those soulless eyes of yours. . .
If it seems like we're still cold. . .
Then we're probably laughing somewhere
We've arms so holy
There's no room left for the needles
Mass suicide gone horribly wrong
And we killed a pig instead
You're as old as the graves now
Aand aren't you the smug little swine?
You feel as high as the bodies on the gallows
And you love their meaningless praise.
You're still falling into those hollow eyes
Alone on the bloody floor.
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