Gardenhead
and when I put my arms around him
Oh, it's so horrendously wrong but you can't help it. You don't like it, no, but you admire it. You like the flex of skin over such flexible, unfused bones. You would drink to that [you'd drink to anything], youth, you wish you hadn't missed it but mummy had never quite cared enough.
A mother gives you a dirty look, wrapping a protective arm round her sons shoulders and leading him away, his playmates following in a dazed group of confusion, complaining loudly as of why. She thinks you wrong and you don't blame her, skin too thick and pasty for your desired life you are grounded to the floor. Not even the sparrows that sing could save you now, their hollow bones echoing in fright at the thought.
Your back stings and you remembers ungrown wings and thoughts of mother earth. Oh, what a beautiful mistress she could be but the runt never did survive, thrive. It's a brief sensation of nostalgia when you remember back, and it's clouded by fat and bad weather. Oh, oh, oh; you said it, thought it.
All alone, now it's a reflection of you. What you see when you looked in the mirror three years ago. Sometimes you wake up and you can't remember what colour your hair was or if the shade of your arms is the same as your face. You hope the lost nights you feel on your face do not manifest to the naked eye but you hope a lot of things that aren't quite reliable.
A mother gives you a dirty look, wrapping a protective arm round her sons shoulders and leading him away, his playmates following in a dazed group of confusion, complaining loudly as of why. She thinks you wrong and you don't blame her, skin too thick and pasty for your desired life you are grounded to the floor. Not even the sparrows that sing could save you now, their hollow bones echoing in fright at the thought.
Your back stings and you remembers ungrown wings and thoughts of mother earth. Oh, what a beautiful mistress she could be but the runt never did survive, thrive. It's a brief sensation of nostalgia when you remember back, and it's clouded by fat and bad weather. Oh, oh, oh; you said it, thought it.
All alone, now it's a reflection of you. What you see when you looked in the mirror three years ago. Sometimes you wake up and you can't remember what colour your hair was or if the shade of your arms is the same as your face. You hope the lost nights you feel on your face do not manifest to the naked eye but you hope a lot of things that aren't quite reliable.
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