TheFeatheredSleep – memories of a time before Instagram.
Today baby, everyone is pert and beautiful
Photoshopped at perfect angle
Swollen lips, weak jaw, 2000 friends with guitars
Can’t keep up, even if I were two and twenty
Better my generation-X lost our film
Didn’t keep a record, of that mistake, or this bad day
We pretend and forget, imprecision a comfort blanket
Not wanting to keep in touch, why force natural closure with technology?
We lost your digits and never knew your surname
A blurry mystery of poor memories
Was it that candlelit poet’s bar now closed?
No proof, no evidence, if a tree falls, does anyone know, if it’s not on Instagram?
I liked your home dyed hair, we shared night under looming sky in damp sleeping bag
You fucked my ideals of love when you slept with her
Sent me on my way with a trash bag of belongings
A dead squirrel slothing skin…
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