You opened up like Morning Glory,
but we know what happens come sundown.
Fluorescent lights forced, effort present;
Having no will to live, though, is that exactly.
You opened up like Morning Glory,
but we know what happens come sundown.
Fluorescent lights forced, effort present;
Having no will to live, though, is that exactly.
This is refreshing to hear after the content in “Started From the Bottom.” Drake spits fire on this track. Quality shit, holding his city down.
I’ll be on here, just not posting any of my new material for a while.
Pep talk from Kid President. And it’s super rad.
courtesy of Shanny Jean Maney
NOT COOL, ROBERT FROST.
The setting sun helps pull the night sky
into place like stage curtains. Despite
a sore neck, I gaze upward at God’s freckled face
and wonder what makes stars as appealing
as they are. Twenty-seven stars— there are more,
I know. Not losing count, I fall victim to distraction
and might as well. Twenty-seven and infinity smaller suns.
You hover over me. Skin like the milky way
against wet lips, I feel freer with hands
constrained. Creating constellations, I count
your beauty marks, lost in the galaxy you carry me in.
Seeking tongues hold the heat of a thousand suns.
I find comfort in starry eyes, wishing upon
every shared glance the same, calming hope.
