PARENTHESES
Some philosophies fuel a belief in the self,
constructed to keep one's goods on one's own shelf.
Built well you're a strong letter I,
with the feet on the ground and the head to the sky.
Now and then you can bend,
it's okay to lean over my way.
You fear that you can't do it all,
and you're right.
Even diligent day takes relief every day
from its work making light from the night.
And when you're holding me
we make a pair of parentheses.
There's plenty space to encase
whatever weird way my mind goes,
I know I’ll be safe in these arms.
If something in the deli aisle makes you cry
you know I’ll put my arm around you
and I’ll walk you outside,
through the sliding doors,
why would I mind?
You're not a baby if you feel the world.
All of the babies can feel the world. That's why they cry.
LET YOUR EARTH QUAKE, BABY
Pull me from the cold and pass me to your shoulders;
Keep me high and warm,
Keep me dry and normal.
Cause I'm riding in your strut and lying in your gutter.
Drunken and confused, ready for abuse.
So let your earth quake, baby.
Push me to the ground and break my ears of sound;
I have never heard.
I have never deserved.
Keep me deaf and muted, slap me till I'm stupid.
I'm dying for your hand;
I'd die to understand.
So let your earth quake,
go ahead and break me.
My skin invincible, you can't phase me.
I will take whatever you give me.
If you pour I'll be the sieve, and I will filter just to live.
So let your earth quake, baby you know me.
I surrender completely and slowly.
And I'm feeling like a genius;
I pound the wall I've built between us,
My hammer tears,
with my come, I will repair.
I deposit what I've felt, in the winter I can sell it.
It grows in the cold until the soil is eroded
ADMIT IT!!!
ADMIT IT! Despite your pseudo-bohemian appearance and vaguely leftist doctrine of beliefs, you know nothing ABOUT art or sex that you couldn't read in any trendy new york underground fashion magazine...Proto-typical non-conformist. You are a vacuous soldier of the thrift store gestapo. You adhere to a set of standards and tastes that appear to be determined by an unseen panel of hipster judges-BULLSHIT-giving your thumbs up and thumbs down to incoming and outgoing trends and styles of music and art. Go analog baby, you're so post-modern. You're diving face forward into an antiquated past, it's disgusting! It's offensive! Don't stick your nose up at me!
You spend your time sitting in circles with your friends, pontificating to each other, forever competing for that one moment of self aggrandizing glory in which you hog the intellectual spotlight, holding dominion over the entire SHALLOW....POINTLESS...conversation. Oh we're not worthy.
When you walk by a group of quote-unquote normal people you chuckle to yourself, patting yourself on the back as you scoff. It's the same superority complex shared by the high school jocks who made your life a living hell, makes you a slave to the competitive capitalist dogma you spend every moment of your waking life BITCHING about!
Nerdvana Community Member 
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