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Main Menu MY POEMS | AUDITORIUM | DEN | CAMPFIRE | MESSAGEBOARD | JUNCTION | LOUNGE | HOME | |
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 TRIPPING GOODNIGHT In my palms each night I make arrangements for a pint sized journey I'm keeping in practice I'm merely staying in shape (Lift one, two, three... Ouch) The pills are a mother But better Every color And as good as sour balls Yes... I admit it's gotten To be a bit of a habit I'm becoming something of a chemical mixer That's it my supply has got to last for years and years I like them more than me Stubborn as hell they wont let go It's a kind of marriage It's a kind of war Where I plant bombs in myself I'm killing myself in small amounts An innocuous occupation Actually, I'm hung up on it (Shhhhh) "But remember I don't make to much noise" It's a ceremony But... like any other sport It's full of rules It's like a musical tennis match Where my mouth keeps catching the ball Then I lay on my alter Elevated by the chemical kisses What a lay me down this is With 2 pink, 2 orange goodnights Fee' Fi' Fo' Fum' now I'm numb And tripping the night away |
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