untitled

your name is a memory breeze
in the abyss of time and space
but even when living sainly in a world amongst madness
i think "love is to be cursed"

i never know what to say to you
because time holds us on but we cant hold onto time
and if we try to hold on, we're wasting our time
clocks just move so slow missing you

clocks make our hearts turn to clay,
theyre hard before we're through
i always felt we were complete
but our end sometimes leaves me feeling desperate

when you speak, you read poetry
and you take away any words i can say
and im left writing some tired words
like "he only laid his brown eyes on me once"

the world over, the same
progress in love is so short
she sits at the table
he gets up and walks away

philosophy of enlightenment is interrupted
lets call it past-tese verbal despression
whe we try to convince ourselves in blank empty pages
that we forget about heartache every tomorrow