Who Flies on the Edge of Rage and Bliss.
They’d say I had fire in me from the beginning.
Jesse James,
William Wallace,
Abraham Lincoln .
Run thick in my blood…
With a mixture like that your bound to be a fire.
I was born to:
Drink,
Eat,
Fuck,
Scream,
Break.
Italian coursing through the left.
Irish coursing through the right.
What they call passion I’ve often called a curse.
Hot tempered and damned.
Every reaction a boiling mess of angry.
Oh but only inside.
Always inside.
Quick too. Always quick.
But I guess my ancestors were conceived at the foot hills of Vesuvius.
So it’s all connected really.
This thing we call passion turned violent.
Unfurling in my veins.
Harness it!
Tame it!
Swallow it!
Don’t let them know.
Hot tempered.
Hell bent.
Warm blooded.
Passionate.
They say. They Say.
Oh my Phoenix:
Who flies on the edge of rage and bliss.
That’s where you walked day in and day out.
And now I know it’s ways well.
Well enough to hear it coming, before it turns it’s shades of fuchsia and scarlet.
Before it Traumatizes.
Before it Burns.
Well enough to see its trigger being pulled.
Well enough to leap.
To do the impossible.
To commit.
To love.
To love a man.
To Vow.
