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My translator
Everyone struggles with the other side of the grass
is it green
is it the future
of the deep driven past
repeat, shuffle, play
life, songs
music every fucking day.
Off to another town
to play the role of how we go up
and fall hard down
onto the bed with you
in my high heels shoes
and nothing else.
You do not have to love me at all
as much as I use it
I don’t.
So many may say it better than me
so many may be prettier
or smarter
or uglier
or closer
and yet here we are
in the same room
no one else can see us
my eyes on yours
and yours on mine
who cares about the wallet
or the cars we drive
or the typing in my head.
Let go the pain
and let me keep on loving your insane
heart
I knew it from the start
to run
but you kept on pulling my hand
painting the road yellow
fanning my stress
massaging my lower back
digging deep inside me with your
magic
I still run fast
I need to
I’m made that way
like a statue coming alive
so cold
so bloody hot.
It’s merely rings on my fingers
gifts from the past
nights made of hot lust
wedding night drunks
it’s all or nothing
nothing or all
it’s my heart
my mind
my soul
that confide
to each other
my keyboard the translator.
Comments:
9
I’d never seen it from this angle before Chrissy but you’re right – it’s a translator, an interface between mind and expression that somehow channels our most prosaic vocabulary into our best, most beautiful and deeply personal creations. Your work is proof positive of this.
Mike, thank you so much! Curtsy.
Typewriters, keyboards, pens, paper- all the same in the end! Xx
This is very nice!
Thank you so much. Xo
our keyboard
~
poetic dance floor
Yes definitely. Dance the night away. 🙂
Reblogged this on Christina Strigas.
It’s simply brilliant and sensational, Chrissy:)
I thank you, my friend x