Sunday, October 7, 2012

An Unofficial Message

They say that weird people ruin God,
Like underneath they play twisted ways.
I know a few of us look at all that bullshit,
And realize if everyone would question the past,
It would stir up such a hunger.

A bunch of yesterdays cannot leave you satisfied.
No heat can open the future.
On our turf, the celebration is difficult to bottle.
It is that wine on my brain knitting words
In my heart tonight.

Things made into responsibilities let work get better.
Throw something in your life,
Like water, coffee, or history.
Finally wear out carpet flags in the Chicago apartment,
Taste every terrible interaction,
And don't ask about official messages on Sundays.

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