Hands Flying

Falling like the underside of fallen leaves
Lying on a broken field of pictures
That are worth a thousand words
If you let them be
If you let yourself be
Worth those thousands of moments
That pass you by, they’re patrons on a street
Faceless;
Their gazes can paralyze
What you’ve got if you’re always weighing what you’ve lost against what you’ve left
For the sake of another’s hollow approval
Of the war going on inside that head
That hasn’t been screwed on all the way,
If you know what I mean,
If you’ve seen what I’ve seen.

Those hands flying.
Darts that didn’t hit quite right
You can’t help it if someone’s directed you towards the wrong bull’s eye.
But you can damn well help it if its not the first time you’ve thrown and missed.
I’d shape up if I were you.
I’d go left then right on through,
To those hands flying.
Life needs a referee.
In striped shirts of authority and maybe pin striped pants that secretly map out the journey of this so called hell we call life.

And when you get there, if you get there,
Let me know if you get there, hon.
The rest of us need road maps, too.

Some of us seem to have made pit stops in the wrong part of town.

There’s city below.
Dying from the inside out; egging each other into death row.
Egging her into her demise
Three cheers for sweet sorrow.

Their hands are flying.
Her hands are flying.
In a tangle of hair, leaving scratch marks
Along those cheeks,
Drawing tears, making puddles for people to drown themselves in.

When you get there, if you get there, honey,
Tell her to stop fighting herself.