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P.S. Eliot

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P.S. Eliot

Sore Subject

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

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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