Nights like these don't make us who we are, so much as dismantle who we were.
Unsteady hands palm to palm with complete strangers "Thank you for your service."
The smell of cheap black coffee and cowboy killing cigarettes hover freshly over me.
A filthy mouth paired with a clean white uniform never balance the Fuck out.
The sun doesn't rise when you're at thirty thousand feet, you're just meeting it half way from home.
Your golden Messiah is nailed and hanging perfectly centered between two tanned breasts.
Plead insanity if you dare speak at all.
I could talk philosophy with any number of you or I could speak at a rock.
It's always only taken one to dance.
Hail To The Chief plays for the final time as the hand carved wooden box is lowered into the ground, a slow macabre rendition, and the First Lady made widow weeps tears of American pride. Outdated railroad tie stitching keeps a nation from just barely bursting at it's seams.
Muscle memory and dead tourists. The deceased and victimized jockey for position, using our heart strings as the reins.
"It takes more muscles to smile than it does to pull the trigger.", Said the broken Warrior to me. The broken Warrior who also said he hates his wife, but couldn't help but to SMILE as he accounted acts of killing to Me.
You may be able to soak up and release knowledge like a sponge, but I'd rather be a spring and let it trickle from me endlessly and effortlessly.
