inarticulate

he wrote about a flaming furious moon

and angels with happy cruel streaks

he wrote about eternity gone too soon

and birds with fangs inside their beaks

he wrote about black childhood fears

and about sparkly-neon outer space

he wrote about dead men’s dried up tears

and living heroes sipping on disgrace

he wrote about epics in unknown tongues

and about feelings never ever felt before

he wrote about gods with human lungs

and about nothing behind a closed door

he wrote about peace raring for a fight

and how perverted horror could be art

he wrote when all he wanted to write

was about his fucking aching heart.

ram cobain