i write when i'm bored.
rubberbands
the ground lost a lot of blood yesterday
and I guess that's what art is
the rubberband cutting off the circulation from his fingertips
suffocating on one-way trips and love letters
the bloody lips he won from the school yard in a forgotten town
he never knew what home was
but if he had one he would have run away,
he can't stand sitting still
the lonely violin, the notes spin through broken air
shattering rhythm we can't hold on to
rather do without
that automatically assembled line
he hates it here like the life he's not living
under spotlights, gunned down, the blurred image spinning
faster than the girl in her wedding gown
through faceless relationships, the empty mailbox
the out of place painting hanging in silence
of love
a forgotten memory
i guess that's what art is
the black eyes he earned from rolling with the hits
he stares with pride "this is what my soul fits"
as if he could ever make a difference
as if you cut him open and out poured city streets
bloody trains, long walks and holding hands
as if life was burnt feet on hot sand
drawing on icy windows, smiles in flannel shirts
a frozen kiss and the love story that got away
its a shame he learned to die this way;
scribbling on some torn paper like the pages that warmed his hands that christmas night
its in his blood now and he can't wait to get it out
