These photos aren't mine just like the sky ain't yours.
I love the smell of leaves falling from dead trees above shooting stars.
The sun set behind your turned off eyes.
Like the moth's irresistibly attracted toward the pale glowing of the streetlights.
I'm no more than the entire audience at the glancing show of your crash.
Let the bees fly around your brain as you kiss the burning ice of freedom.
I wish you could pack up the day as I ate the moon to burn together forever.
You'll learn that bright bundles in the sky are just smoking planes.
Get to know how I really feel.
Listen to the mothafuckin Death Set.