The Question

On Tuesday she asked the most peculiar question.
"Are you sick of dying?"
In a low voice, she added,
"Because, believe me, I'm not."

Yes, Tuesday she developed the terrible habit
Of saying to all she met,
"Are you sick of dying?
Because, believe me, I'm not."

Making Change

We were picky children, bratty as hell
Though we thought ourselves divine
When our pennies failed to preform
We cashed them in for dimes.
They were melted down and put away
In a solid chunk of time.
Saved for the rainy day we learned
How to grow to proper size.

All The Good Girls

He saunters down the hall
With that heinous, charming glow
He cradles his unsafe gun
Because a touch can make it blow
While unfailing and stealthy
With the flattery he throws
He passes over all the good girls
And the parts they never show

I'll be bound forever
No matter what he does to me
For the way that he seduces,
The way that he retreats,
And the crocodile tears
Pouring from tales of disease
Lamenting all the good girls
And how fragile they all seem

He rips out flowers by the roots
Even though we'd rather grow
And after he ate my heart
He left me in the undertow
But when his feet bring him back
And there's mutany down below
I spare a thought for all the good girls
And the pain they'll never know

For all his poorly written lies
I still accept the apology
Because no  matter where he goes
I'm still swallowed in the sea
I hope I'll someday drown
Because I know I'll never breathe
And I pray for all the good girls
I hope they'll never be
Me.