Lyrics I wrote =].

Sorry for my possible linguistic mistakes. I'm not English speaking.

NEON LIGHTS ON MY SKIN AT NIGHT

You are talking 'bout empathy
while you drink sips of ginger tea.
I stare, I wait, I listen, but your lips stay still.

You seemed to have so much to say,
well, the conversation still lingers on anyway.
Branches in the rainstorm. A drink to make us warm.

You grazed the pebbles on my white back,
first with your lips, then one by one under your fingertips.
Dim eyes, forced smiles, bare feet, gas lamps out in the street.

The neon lights from outside make our skin look surreal,
they highlight the faults that we cannot conceil.

I'm quite ashamed of my naked breast,
even if, I know, last night your head laid on my chest.
The sheets were stained. The rain ticked on the windowpane.

All the talking is over now.
I'm wearing nothing but a white towel.
A spot, a quilt, ashes, a shot, a bunch of keys.

You're making coffee, I can hear the noise,
and a hint of fake in your kneaded voice.
Now leaves and blades are still, but some drops of milk are spilt.

Those biscuits and fruit juice they just made me sick,
and the air in this kitchen got heavily thick.
The light fixture hanging down the flaky ceiling
is suggesting me several oppressive feelings.
So I'm walking 'round, inertly, with your towel on.
My slight sense of hope is already definitely gone.
Now I think of the wishes I've blown,

and I'm all alone.



BUTTON NOSES, SOILED WINDOWS (TRAVELLING SONG)

I threw your picture in a puddle
next to the crooked train track,
and through my eyes its colors blend, they're growing addle
and painting your face black.
The water blurs the contours and your clothes turn out like stains,
while green is slowly filling your white hands and empty veins.

Behind me people get smaller and smaller.
I could grab them away,
hang them on four strings like marionets
and think of what I'll make them say.
These pupils scan faces, signs, distinguishing marks,
but lower unconsciously as they meet quick, sharp sun sparks.

I keep hurting myself with the same spindle,
and i wonder what's the point between myself and that girl stuck to the window.
Piercing, poisoned spindles,
button noses stuck to the soiled window.

An old, creased man sinks in the seat beside me, coughs in his handkerchief.
Imagining our shacking hands I think it would be exciting
to incite him while he tells of his few goals and suffering.
To read between the folds of his burnt face
and then write something about him,
but when I think of what to say
his feet are already leaving, walking their own way.

My hands clunged firmly to the armrest,
unknown but quiet familiar silhouettes.
I don't want this rail to ever end,
could drink a coffee for every non smoked cigarette.
My morbid hopes won't let me close my eyelids.
I left without regrets, tight hugs or kisses on the cheeks.

But I'm still asking the time,
deciding if I truly like their voice,
and turning on my camera
I wonder if that spot would be a nice choice.

Poisoned, piercing spindles,
a frowning girl is stucking to the window.
I hurt myself with a spindle,
but what's the point between myself and what's beyond this window?




NEARLY AUTUMN

Slender branches are undressing in front of ourselves.
Their creaky yellow clothes fall on our windscreen.
You're urgently picking, breathlessly looking for all the love pages in your bookshelves,
but I'm not an actress,
and also my diction is a mess.
My skin is glossy skin, my legs are crooked legs.
And our useless attempts will fall back on ourselves
and leave on us big blue bruises to remind us of our awkwardness.

So I'm proposing to get out of this car,
it's not that I'm not having fun, I mean, I just feel like a drink at the bar.
During the walk I mumble idiot things
"You could quit watering the plants, I don't even like flowers".
The night has just started, but as a kid at school I'm already counting down the hours.

So you cast me thoughtful glances,
stopping everywhere I stop by,
straining still perfect grins in front of the lenses,
although to me blurry photos are just fine.
All the evening you've been drinking from the glass where I left a lipstick spot.
Maybe it was red geranium, but I'm not sure, I probably forgot.

Now, hands in pockets, condensing breath, I'm waiting alone for the next bus to come,
and since it's getting freezing, the only thing I can think about or say
is "Why haven't I stolen his car, just for one day?"

hehehe, not baad

Thank you =].

AWAKE AMONG ANESTHETIC WALLS, BENEATH RIGID SHEETS

Letters are scattering around
two sleepy, yawning outlines crouching cross legged on the beach
They fill their pockets of snails that they've just found
but the taste of their tongues together by her palate feels like bleach

As the sun rises it leaves a pearly trace,
on her skin some drops of sweat start mixing with her scent of clove,
but they keep on pushing hair out of their face
and exchanging shell neklaces as a symbol of their love

The shades on their clothes slowly vanish
While she thinks of proper epilogues his hand covers her left knee,
unaware of her silent wish
to return the picked up shells straight to the bottom of the sea

Their profiles are unstable
like some old, thick books balanced on a girl's head
As she waits for the sea to scratch out
and to gulp them both with the paper they have spread
the shore fills up with people heading straight for the sea foam
and they both decide it's time to go back home



The dry click of the lock
echoes among her ribs, resounding louder than she expects
and the hands of the clock
unwind derisively slowly, ignoring her multiplied breaths

A pair of slippers, on the desk some unmatched powns,
a book read 'till page 46 placed casually on the chair,
the TV she's forgotten she left on
look comfortably familiar, except the crocks laying untouched there

Parts of conversations are troubling her ears
along with his apology speeches always exactly the same
She finds some paper but the ink pours and covers it with smears
and every goodbye that she writes seems trite and makes her feel ashamed

The red paints stylized roses on the palms of her hands,
the soles of her feet are speckled with grains of sand
A fake burst of applause resounds from the screen in the background
but the flashes of light do not match with the sound
or with the beauty of her face, unnaturally pale,
framed by white peaces of porcelain and writing attempts that she's failed



Bad flavours fill again her mouth
as she wakes 'mongst empty walls, beneath these starchy, stiff, bleached sheets,
tastes she tries to get rid of
concentrating on the nothing or the apathy of her beats,

itimizing without any rush
objects she's supposed to need in a tidy numbered list,
glancing vaguely at her guest's blush
as their cowardly flashing eyes lay accidentally on her wirst

They come out from behind the door,
scan the blankness of her eyes to find a sign of her regret,
with their soles creaking lowly against the floor
they bring cakes that will grow musty in the drawer where they've been set

Words keep being largely wasted to hide something so evident,
mum is loving her unconditionally but pretends it was an accident
And if he comes to her at the hospital she won't expect he understands
that after all the things that happened the only thing she truly needs is still the weight of his hands on her hands.