I write sins, not tragedies

We bruise and get better

If I had to describe a home, I wouldn’t go with a house.
On a tree or a ground.
Not with a building, either.
It would be a song.
Never small and always huge.
Hit the tune and fall apart.
Sometimes low and sometimes high.

“We bruise and get better” – famous last words.
But you can’t get there when you weren’t even good in the beginning.
We bruise and get better.
Become a masterpiece then dissolve.
The bruises fade away and I remain an unapologetic champion of dignity.
Which you love.
And “love” is a word we rarely use, but we mean it.

“We bruise and get better” – famous last words.
But you can’t get there when you weren’t even good in the beginning.

– Come home – it rings as Buddy speaks.
And he knows things.
He knows us.
When the roof gets on fire and we open the windows.
When we put it out in silence but wanna scream.
When we’re bruised and better at the same time.
What about feelings?
Oh…they’re everything but daisies. 

Here’s the deal.

“Later” never came and afterthought screamed “rather never”.
Not a friend nor foe, just a reminder that black looks good on me.
I am not afraid to attend the funerals.
I know which flowers to bring.
And they won’t be fucking daisies. 

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