Honestly, when I look at this pic and internally evaluate what others are feeling about it and before I can ask, The real MR MATT how he feels about it, I catch myself whispering "I think I was 8 when this photo was taken".
I guess like songs that I don't know the background too or understand the meaning of the way the words have been strung together or placed in that order, so I use my own word math to apply connotations to weave curses and spells in hope of stopping the unknown realities from becoming mine or defining who I might be, In truth it's no different to me using people as canvas in between sheets.
Maybe my cock isn't a paint brush
Just maybe
Maybe she wasn't my canvas
and I wasn't there's.
I have always argued that I play people like fine instruments
they were my instruments,
my lips a delicate interface
And the sex just a protocol.
I guess like songs that I don't know the background too or understand the meaning of the way the words have been strung together or placed in that order, so I use my own word math to apply connotations to weave curses and spells in hope of stopping the unknown realities from becoming mine or defining who I might be, In truth it's no different to me using people as canvas in between sheets.
Maybe my cock isn't a paint brush
Just maybe
Maybe she wasn't my canvas
and I wasn't there's.
I have always argued that I play people like fine instruments
they were my instruments,
my lips a delicate interface
And the sex just a protocol.
You cut me into so many pieces its all I can do to look at them, examine each one individually and place them neatly back in place only to figure out the pieces have changed shape and the puzzle is different.
When I look back at my pieces, I try and breathe in the wounds
wanting to taste it sensually
even rejection is addictive
when you compare it to the silence of no longer feeling
this rabid tongue traces my lips in hope of finding blood
so that I might know it was real
and that I meant something,
something to
breathe in the wounds
to show that you cared
to gauge my heart beating
forcing the time to move sideways
up and down back and forward at the same time
looking for pieces
before the pendulum measured time
before rhythm was labeled divine
searching for outline
something to define
to define
what I am,
what I am to you
as we breathe in the wounds of time,
everytime
wanting to taste it sensually
even rejection is addictive
when you compare it to the silence of no longer feeling
this rabid tongue traces my lips in hope of finding blood
so that I might know it was real
and that I meant something,
something to
breathe in the wounds
to show that you cared
to gauge my heart beating
forcing the time to move sideways
up and down back and forward at the same time
looking for pieces
before the pendulum measured time
before rhythm was labeled divine
searching for outline
something to define
to define
what I am,
what I am to you
as we breathe in the wounds of time,
everytime
rewrite those pieces of yourself to be sensual, sexual and alive in a way they werent a moment earlier.