We've taken all the roots from the trees
and given them to the children born without feet.
We ask them to crawl. We ask them to feed.
We ask them depend on appendages as well as their knees.
I've had it with this world's twisted way of saying sorry.
I'm done with all the things I never finished, but I've started.
I've cleared my throat of the phlegm and blood that Winter's
made me bottle up. I can't say I give a fuck
about all your literature,
about all your paintings,
about all your music and all your new sounds,
about all your muses and different perspectives.
What is life without a home and what is home without love?
Home is where the bar is for all the starving artists
and the starving artists crave for their big break.
With my breath on your breath
and the countless cigarettes
we've made a home.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
1 comment:
This is really amazing. I agree with Jordano. There is nothing that needs editing.
Love the rhythm and semi-rhymes of the first stanza.
Love the repetition of the second.
Third stanza: so true.
"Home is where the bar is for all the starving artists" - awesome. Just great.
Ending has that classic Mike punch. Great bittersweet blunt reality.
Post a Comment