Hands On The Glass
I know you want Green grass.
Would you ever wipe the mirror clean?
If you did you'd see what I see
A beautiful Rose wrapped in Poison Ivy,
but you're mine
Contrary to popular belief
I know you want Green grass,
but does anyone really find that
I'll stand here
With my hands on the glass
Waiting for you to come back
Would you ever give up your ghosts for a dream?
If you did you'll always find me
My beautiful Rose wrapped in Poison Ivy
You are mine
Contrary to popular belief
I know you want Green grass,
but does anyone really find that
I'll stand here
With my hands on the glass
Waiting for you to come back
About the Creator
Frankie Martinelli
Musician.
All work is copyrighted, and is my own.
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making space
Since the only thing that might pull us back up is caring, it only makes sense that here, long after I’ve let my anger born of heartbreak and grief misplace, multiply, misdirect itself, let the enormity of my solitude turn into something I don’t know how to dispute with, something thick and heavy and suffocating, let the coldness thrash and fight under my skin, deeper still, in between the arches of my organs; here where the ground is always close and the fall is easy and I surrender to it often, lie without purpose for hours, it only makes sense that it is here, I decide to show up and surrender to the possibilities of the night. Show up to those who I deserted. Drawn to the sense of accomplishment, something I haven’t felt in a while, to memory of finished dish sending its aroma into the world and with it, wrapping the room with a strong sense of sweet nostalgia, I get up and decide to cook. I pick up my phone, type a message that reads “Dinner at mine @ 8PM, don’t bring anything” and before my courage deserts me again, drop it in our friends’ group chat, the way one would do when diffusing a bomb in the movies: one eye closed, snip at the wire, hoping for the best.
By Mesh Toraskar7 days ago in Feast
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