Open Books
Broken hearts,
they hurt like hell.
But afterwards,
I always think they're worth it.
They open up my tattered soul,
like an empty book,
and they write whole novels within me.
I've got a whole series I'd be willing to lend to you.
You can read my broken hearts off to me like broken songs,
Mating calls to a plethera of lonely girls,
searching for a Prince Charming.
I'm not a boy,
and I'm sure as hell not a prince,
but you can bet your sweet ass
that I'm pretty damn charming.
Or at least, I try to be.
Sometimes a rage takes over
taunted by the extremities of my bad luck
and I rip my heart from the hands of the girl holding it.
Sometimes I turn.. red, not green.
I turn red from holding my breath in
waiting for my Irish ancestors just to pass me some luck,
"Don't you think I've waiting long enough yet?!"
I also sometimes turn red from anger,
I scream to the heavens, or more like the ground
cursing my German ancestors for bringing me bad Karma,
"Why'd you have to do that to those innocent people?!"
I cry to myself so much it turns my face red,
from choking on spit and fighting back my sobs.
Why couldn't I channel my Indian overlookers for peace.
All I can say to them is, "I'm so sorry."
All of this is printed in Times New Roman
Point 10, in my tattered soul.
Because point 12 just wouldn't fit.
they hurt like hell.
But afterwards,
I always think they're worth it.
They open up my tattered soul,
like an empty book,
and they write whole novels within me.
I've got a whole series I'd be willing to lend to you.
You can read my broken hearts off to me like broken songs,
Mating calls to a plethera of lonely girls,
searching for a Prince Charming.
I'm not a boy,
and I'm sure as hell not a prince,
but you can bet your sweet ass
that I'm pretty damn charming.
Or at least, I try to be.
Sometimes a rage takes over
taunted by the extremities of my bad luck
and I rip my heart from the hands of the girl holding it.
Sometimes I turn.. red, not green.
I turn red from holding my breath in
waiting for my Irish ancestors just to pass me some luck,
"Don't you think I've waiting long enough yet?!"
I also sometimes turn red from anger,
I scream to the heavens, or more like the ground
cursing my German ancestors for bringing me bad Karma,
"Why'd you have to do that to those innocent people?!"
I cry to myself so much it turns my face red,
from choking on spit and fighting back my sobs.
Why couldn't I channel my Indian overlookers for peace.
All I can say to them is, "I'm so sorry."
All of this is printed in Times New Roman
Point 10, in my tattered soul.
Because point 12 just wouldn't fit.