Poet
I’m a Runner,
it spreads like poison through
my heretic French blood.
When I run, I hide.
Then I stay hidden.
With the trees collapsing around me,
closing fully in
turning into a cage.
I don’t know yet,
maybe I never will
if I’m scared or safe.
I need to break free
and run
and run
and run
and run
and run
and run
and run.
The lost girl is free to run around the world,
surrounded by forgotten tears and broken dreams;
with her glitter stained bruises
and nails painted with cigarette smoke,
she walks alone, a damaged little girl
everybody knows she’s ruined to her core.
The lost girl can do what she pleases,
takes what’s given to her, looking out for love
in pools of glass shards;
dancing to the beat of a broken heart,
her eyes too dazed to make her way back home.
The lost girl is getting younger each year.
Regressing into a little child.
Needing a saviour or a saint
to get her out of deathly dreams.
The lost girl is in a broken-down car.
Driving to her utopia;
she’s about to crash.
The scale is broken;
sand is on the wrong side
the bad side.
Its getting too strong,
pushing all else down to the floor
kicking it in their face.
The men up there
in their powerful blue sky.
What’s inside them?
Do we want to know?
They sit in their towers
masks on their face.
But the glue is starting to sink
and burn to their skin.
Don’t they know that all will fall
If a good man believes his own bravado?
Its coming soon.
