String In My Throat
You heat it up and then it just turns into glass.
It's easy for you to smash.
The wreckage is on fire; melted and twisted iron.
Wood splintered and chipped with one hundred nails stuck in it. I choke to talk to you.
I choke to look at you.
You're a piece of string in my throat.
My face is like a map; you see where you are at an X for, "You are here between my eyebrow and my ear.
Just a tiny mole."
You see it?
From up close, a picture of your face tattooed on my face.
Autor(es): Digger