I can’t recall how many times i’ve seen the lunar display
Enhanced by the sheen of the beer goggles
Since I had to unlock the handcuffs on your wrist
The notion of a month passing makes the mind boggle
The hands of the analog
Are making they’re second whip around for the day
The bunions of our feet can take the strain no more
We stagger to the nearest bench to lay
I know there are better ideas then issuing a response
To your little Morse code tappings up and down my legs
Like juggling TNT’s at a pyrotechnic festival blindfolded
But lagging hearts can only think in the short term
I’ll endure your intent even while I bleed
Anything to stop the dreams
What was a suggestion has become a plea
What was a want is now a need
Oh I’m in hell
Trying to crack a smile
Oh I’m in hell
Pulling the smoke over my lies
Oh I’m in hell
Trying to enjoy it all the while
Oh I’m in hell
Stuck inbetween these two thighs
Domestic Poetry 