(no subject)
When I said I hate what I'd become, I lied, I hated who I was.
Meloncholy. I had somewhat of an interesting day. Nothing unusual happened. I found out that I'm quite unsatisfied. I couldn't sleep last night, I was writing a novel in my head, but all that happened was words that didn't make sense nearly choked me, words I couldn't even grasp. Without any osrt of concept or linear or even non linear attachment to reality.
I'm trying to decide what I hate more- Being like this, or being the way I was. I feel like the way I used to be was at least more honest. Maybe less people, certainly more that cared.
Xylophone
After about a month, your lungs gave in.
I wrote about my old neighbourhood;
Something rhyming with catchy slang,
to make you laugh. And in Blue.
And you are dead on my knee, not breathing air,
but decades of library book dust.
And I am brushing your hair, with my fingers,
We Exist somewhere else, where your smoke still
polutes me; threatens me with death.
My whiskey still stains your kisses there,
and your blood my lips. Blue Black.
I was troubled, you see, solace in remembrance.
Lying there dead on me, weighing me down
making floorboards creek, while I cling for dear
life, drowing myself or hanging from a window.
Lottie, Lottie, she never did know what to say
to make me feel better. Circles of finger pads
on temples, blood from in between legs on the
white witch dress. Vicaden. Cocaine. Oxegen.
Some kind of anything, with someone else words
choking me. The thought of waking up.
Meloncholy. I had somewhat of an interesting day. Nothing unusual happened. I found out that I'm quite unsatisfied. I couldn't sleep last night, I was writing a novel in my head, but all that happened was words that didn't make sense nearly choked me, words I couldn't even grasp. Without any osrt of concept or linear or even non linear attachment to reality.
I'm trying to decide what I hate more- Being like this, or being the way I was. I feel like the way I used to be was at least more honest. Maybe less people, certainly more that cared.
Xylophone
After about a month, your lungs gave in.
I wrote about my old neighbourhood;
Something rhyming with catchy slang,
to make you laugh. And in Blue.
And you are dead on my knee, not breathing air,
but decades of library book dust.
And I am brushing your hair, with my fingers,
We Exist somewhere else, where your smoke still
polutes me; threatens me with death.
My whiskey still stains your kisses there,
and your blood my lips. Blue Black.
I was troubled, you see, solace in remembrance.
Lying there dead on me, weighing me down
making floorboards creek, while I cling for dear
life, drowing myself or hanging from a window.
Lottie, Lottie, she never did know what to say
to make me feel better. Circles of finger pads
on temples, blood from in between legs on the
white witch dress. Vicaden. Cocaine. Oxegen.
Some kind of anything, with someone else words
choking me. The thought of waking up.