Blawg

http://haleycrain.tumblr.com for everyday thoughts and bullshit. 

Dead Love Song*

Well my baby's a zombie,

I hit him ten times in the face

And he didn't feel a thing.

We knew we were dying,

Decided to fight it

But he up and walked

and I still feel the sting.

Where's all your peacocks and 

teacakes and teapots?

When you fall, your chin hits the ground.

I know in the end everything will get broken,

but we could still sit back and 

enjoy the sound.

He rose, well he rose up

From grandaddy's grasses

Decided that he oughta be a man.

But these days he's stirring  

his tea with the ashes 

Of all the things he thought he'd

play by the plans.

Where are your elephants,

Lions and ivory?

When you fire, your shot hits the ground.

I know in the end everything will get broken,

but we could still sit back and 

enjoy the sound.

It's better than rotting away,

it's better than rotting away.

You can't dance with a zombie, but baby believe me,

I would have tried anyway.

My babe was a zombie,

I hit him ten times in the face

And he didn't feel a thing.

We knew we were dying,

Decided to fight it

But he up and walked

and boy, I felt the sting.

It was better than rotting away,

better than rotting away.

I'm sorry you're sad and I'm sad you're not sorry,

But maybe it's best you don't stay.

*Or, "Haley attempts to write something resembling a song and probably makes a fool of herself in the process but oh well it's just a dumb blog"

Angels fall short of all that we could make this life

And they're all assholes anyway;

your heroes and your poets

are dead.  

We right here right now are alive 

and will live forever 

and we will have known our own names. 

"There are 6.7 billion people in the world," 

she said,

"And I tonight I will dance with every one of them." 

can'tyouseethat

we are only the monsters we make ourselves, that

we are only smashing our skulls with rocks from the inside, but 

we are only human, but you say

we are only beasts, but

we are only the beasts we become. 

All You Are

You and Charles Bukowski would slam your heads on a wall till you shatter apart.

But to be a flowering vine

pushing through time would 

ease it down so sweetly.

And to 

slow-dance with it, 

explore

every crack

and 

float your leaves out to touch the night, to stretch, 

and curl, 

and relish in your decay because 

you are all 

you are.

Just an observation.

Romance and mystery are scarce in a world where even the redneck boy who works at the corner store has a damn Facebook. 

I don't think I like this decade. Can I have another?