They say poets lead the love brigade, wielding pain as their switchblade. If they could only see the mess I’ve made and the daggers I have thrown! But my angels bridged the outer crust and drowned me in their diamond dust. Whatever darkness I come across will lead me (back) home.
So the doctor came back with good news: my legs aren’t broken, just badly bruised. So I guess I’ll just limp with the truth and try to walk away. I want it all: the friends and foes, the hangovers and afterglows, the booby traps in pretty bows. Just send them all my way.
See, my new skin is overzealous, trying to go from cage to palace. The left side of my brain gets jealous and I can hear it shatter. And in this arena I adore, there’s a corrida like a tidal bore. But am I the bull or the matador? Ah does it even matter…
So as my bluebird rises from the ashes and flaps its wings like burning matches, I hope the songs I sing will patch its heart and gouge its eyes. And I’ll take it where the air is real and roses dangle from the ceiling. And my words will spell out what I’m feeling with no cape nor disguise.