Strings To Hold Shape Of Wounds

The more the merrier
I say to every finger
As it coats itself in armor of
Nickel, silver, diamond and platinum
Cuts don’t hurt as bad as broken or bruised
But they make the bad look bad
And bad goes to worse when the man in white
Asks how many steps it was
He mumbles under his white mask and reflective glasses
I can see every string he pulls through my body

And so this the time I talk about the couch
That all my words stem from
Every hit molding every emotion into one
And endless trips with a wheelbarrow
To move these tons

But I have to admit
With every hit
Keeping me in tune to all these words
But long ago, I threw you in a can doused in gasoline and lit it

Without emotion I would be a mossy stump
Barely touching my tree that lets me see
The forest top and hounding fiends

by Timmy Tubbs

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