life as therapy, a plague on the workhouse

[foxtongue]

Conversations like unsatisfied lovers, humming melodies around the truth, leaving dishes of promises over night to congeal into something a little more honest. All I can hope is for the best. I hold my head up, nod when it's appropriate, smile like I don't know precisely what will happen once the lights are off. I'm not a miracle. What they make of me isn't even very real.

Violins sway, paint a pretty fabrication, a space built up like a palace of what they think I mean. Rescue, some sort of shift, a princess made of dragons who can take them away from the same scenarios they live day after day, shake up the routine, make it bearable, make it change. The foundations of fiction. Everything ideal, nothing unusual, nothing thought quite through. Such a shame.

I think to myself, this will be less, but at least for now we'll be okay.

Comments

[lost-ecstasy.livejournal.com]

Whenever I listen to Beirut I find myself understanding those deeper places and confused relationships, then writing beautifully truly deeply, as you have hear. I love your writing. Thank you for sharing your life, and your stories. It makes so many other's lives more rich. If we were all to share our colors imagine how bright the world would be.

[porphyre.livejournal.com]

Thank you very much. They are a lovely band, aren't they?

[lost-ecstasy.livejournal.com]

Quite. (Pardon my use of hear instead of here... it's been a long sleepy day).
:)

[porphyre.livejournal.com]

Sundays are like that.