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• Artiste: P.S. Eliot
• Titre: Sore Subject
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like a helpless captive, a distraught midwife like a libran husband and a capricorn wife i turn to wine and whiskey and these cryptic songs maybe i'm passive aggressive or maybe i'm wrong but don't go yet, old lipstick, old cassettes clutter the carpet where my futile head rests and i'd explain it, but i've long-since dismissed the thought of vitality, you'll get nothing out of me but don't go yet and like a sore subject, objective pursuit like a fearful me or an asinine you and we avoid eye contact as i'm just dragged along maybe i should just grow up or maybe i'm wrong as soon as my eyes avert, more skin of alabaster you don't warn me before, you just devastate me after and like a dangling noose or like an endless sea we both know how to love and i think you owe more to me