The pretty boxes out there are calling us,
Their colours and lights want to eat us
And we’re flying like stupid culicidaes
Like if there were no other ways.
We cut off our hands and they can reach us,
They know how to take our brains from us
And we suicide like horny spiders.
Who’s the martyr here anyway?
1 comentário:
Como podemos sempre ler o que quisermos na poesia, quero, agora, ler nas 'pretty boxes' a televisão e o fenómeno amorangado! Sem dó!
'like stupid culicidaes'... that we tend to be...
eheh
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