We’re just two little sheets, blowing in the wind
once held together by a paperclip, long ago slipped away,
And we flit and float, we go our own ways, blowing
Down the dusty streets, past sleeping hobos and kids at play,
Two little sheets, crumpled by careless hands
Tossed into bins in separate alleyways,

You in Caroline,
Me in the humid East,
I still burn like kindling,
The aching still doesn’t cease,

Just two little sheets, with meaningless scribblings,
And noone’s to blame, no need to feel any shame,
We just blow where we may, but it’ll be o.k.,
Just two little sheets tossed about with no aim,
Oh, but your little girl, she’ll love you till you’re old and gray,
It is what it is, we are who we are, and the rest is
Just a rusty paperclip stuck down some storm drain anyway.

You in Caroline,
Me in the humid East,
I still burn like kindling,
But at least my conscience is at peace.


.
[Edited 12/7/09 5:01am]

surprisingly beautiful.

vivid said:

dude, bump this shit. Thanks http://prince.org/msg/15/321779

Imago said:

I mean it. I used to write quite a bit, and being a literature graduate I've read a few lines in my times. And that is nice.

you're huggin' everyone up in the place today, innit?

vivid said:

wow. Thanks
It's actually quite autobiographical

Imago said:

I'd have been surprised if it wasn't. But, whatever gave you the idea that I was in Caroline?

vivid said:

you go your own way, blowing....

roodboi said: