mikesifeldeen (![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} mikesifeldeen) wrote,@ 2007-09-02 11:46:00 |
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No One Cares About The Bullet
Not quite wanting to rise yet not wanting to set, vacant eyes make room for indifferent stares. Like the way the light reflects off your brow, almost as if it's trying to get back to it's source as quickly as possible. Or maybe it's just too ironic: the perfect lighting of a dark mind. But you'll sell me out. And walls will rupture from the inside out. If only believe could be spelt without the lie. All the connections, all the connective tissue in the world, it couldn't hold me together now. Clots will dance inside my veins, and paint your palms that pasty white. The contrast of crimson could be seen from your core, but no one cares about the bullet.
Not quite wanting to rise yet not wanting to set, vacant eyes make room for indifferent stares. Like the way the light reflects off your brow, almost as if it's trying to get back to it's source as quickly as possible. Or maybe it's just too ironic: the perfect lighting of a dark mind. But you'll sell me out. And walls will rupture from the inside out. If only believe could be spelt without the lie. All the connections, all the connective tissue in the world, it couldn't hold me together now. Clots will dance inside my veins, and paint your palms that pasty white. The contrast of crimson could be seen from your core, but no one cares about the bullet.
