All the knocks upon your door, footsteps fallen on your floor. All the shipwrecks on your shore mean nothing to me. All the crooks on Capitol Hill, criminals on the dollar bills, all the money on Wall Street still couldn’t keep me from getting closer to you.
Closer to you, like a priest on a pulpit preaching to an empty room, Like a drunk in a dive bar in the early afternoon, closer to you.
Poets could not pronounce your name. Gamblers couldn’t play the game. Matchstick statues set to flame couldn’t hold a candle to you. Swindlers on the Sunset strip, hypnotists and hypocrites, ventriloquists and pickpockets wish that they could get…
I sit through the trickery, the jealousy and vanity, the potency of your prophecy because I long to be closer to you.
Six bottles went down the drain, one hour’s waste of time. I’d ask if you feel the same, still pushing that chance to try.
Your breath in this cool room chill long hair that blows side to side; you speak and make time stand still, and each time you walk right on by…
Like violence you have me, forever, and after. Like violence you kill me, forever and after.
Can’t count all the eyes that stare, can’t count all the things they see. She kills with no life to spare, just victims are left to bleed. One drink and the pain goes down, soft shadows lay by her feet. Lay soft as you slowly drown, lay still while you fall asleep.
“It’s all circling around the same problem of personal liberties,” Walter said. “People came to this country for either money or freedom. If you don’t have money, you cling to your freedoms all the more angrily. Even if smoking kills you, even if you can’t afford to feed your kids, even if your kids are getting shot down by maniacs with assault rifles. You may be poor, but the one thing nobody can take away from you is the freedom to fuck up your life whatever way you want to.”—Jonathan Franzen, Freedom (via actegratuit)