Post by Robin on Dec 26, 2005 17:31:07 GMT -8
This is one of my first good attempts at writing poetry with dark/gothic under shades. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.
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Reach out and touch that candle flame,
‘Cause when the music ends and the tight-rope bends,
You’ve got no one left besides yourself to blame.
And the blisters that rise on your fingers are your fault, too,
‘Cause when non-conformity’s in; you call it a sin,
Though you know that you sponsored the shocking debut.
Guitars grinding, hair dye blinding,
Soul-finding
It’s a gothic reminding, a Satan minding, and it’s all you.
Write your sad lyrics and cry mascara tears,
‘Cause when macabre writer is all you can be, camping out under a punk rocker’s marquee,
You’ll worship Pythagoras’ music of spheres.
You tell everyone that your story’s a rosette,
‘Cause when tough love’s what you need, Papa’d always spill his seed,
As sweet and as toxic as Mama’s pot cig’rette.
Guitars grinding, hair dye blinding,
Soul-finding
It’s a gothic reminding, a Satan minding, and it’s all you.
Carve dirty words on your wrists and your breasts,
‘Cause when the other kids do it, it just must be legit,
No matter what your therapist suggests.
Sing sad songs and chop off your hair,
‘Cause when the tears start, they refuse to depart,
And you can only run away to your castle in the air.
Guitars grinding, hair dye blinding,
Soul-finding
It’s a gothic reminding, a Satan minding, and it’s all you.
Guitars grinding, hair dye blinding,
Soul-finding
It’s a gothic reminding, a Satan minding, and it’s all you.
It’s an ode to the goth-kid.
------
Reach out and touch that candle flame,
‘Cause when the music ends and the tight-rope bends,
You’ve got no one left besides yourself to blame.
And the blisters that rise on your fingers are your fault, too,
‘Cause when non-conformity’s in; you call it a sin,
Though you know that you sponsored the shocking debut.
Guitars grinding, hair dye blinding,
Soul-finding
It’s a gothic reminding, a Satan minding, and it’s all you.
Write your sad lyrics and cry mascara tears,
‘Cause when macabre writer is all you can be, camping out under a punk rocker’s marquee,
You’ll worship Pythagoras’ music of spheres.
You tell everyone that your story’s a rosette,
‘Cause when tough love’s what you need, Papa’d always spill his seed,
As sweet and as toxic as Mama’s pot cig’rette.
Guitars grinding, hair dye blinding,
Soul-finding
It’s a gothic reminding, a Satan minding, and it’s all you.
Carve dirty words on your wrists and your breasts,
‘Cause when the other kids do it, it just must be legit,
No matter what your therapist suggests.
Sing sad songs and chop off your hair,
‘Cause when the tears start, they refuse to depart,
And you can only run away to your castle in the air.
Guitars grinding, hair dye blinding,
Soul-finding
It’s a gothic reminding, a Satan minding, and it’s all you.
Guitars grinding, hair dye blinding,
Soul-finding
It’s a gothic reminding, a Satan minding, and it’s all you.
It’s an ode to the goth-kid.
