The Dead Machinist
2007-12-13 - 3:17 p.m.
The Dead Machinists
As long as you're up,
You have some explaining to do.
Watching you breathe down air like
menthol, and you say ink is poison.
(You'll never raise your writing hand
again.)
I've been meaning to captivate you for
weeks, and I'm slurring my words.
The words you say are barbs aimed at my
frozen heart.
We're not trying to sound sardonic,
just give us a chance.
This will be my last plea. Just say
yes or no, and I'll take it from here.
I've a thousand words and not one melody.
I'll play you love songs in diners,
write you a rhyme, but please
don't say it's over when really it
just began.
Me.