this is wut i like to call, no sense. you may refer it to nonsense. thats why i live to doubt you =)
smoking.
the smoke from my lungs, the dirty inability to speak what could be on my severed tongue.... still cut from my speech as i spill the ashes into something- nothing really, only a designated area of soon to be waste. and its odd how moments of ecstacy turn so quick with the slip of a word. the flow of a sentence, so innocent to one- so senile to another. smoking. dirty air that poors from my intestines, as if it were the pain- exiting my insides in slow breathes of betrayal.
we take this as an addiction.
Affliction from the past sinuos in our souls we know its a righteous time to release..... or let our corpses go....
a persons words are so in sync, so masked and linked with another involvement. and every sylabol may be every instinct lost; in a past- indifferent
and still spoken to last. smoking. times of yore pooring from our hearts, bloodstreams and confinements all at once, in every beat.... so much feeling, so restricted to one vein, to one place, (so kill its slowly) one second ignored. its an understatement buried beneath so much more. waiting. (intense but not surreal. nonsense.) inhaling slowely to understand something pure. and its a sylabol i tend to deny i still claim. the loss of its fame was the death of a child we all hide and
will always recognize.
smoking because its life inside the pain. its the desire to cleanse again in such an obscene way, as if the day may be erased by the breathes we take in vain.
inhale (unjust pollution). exhaling (uncontrollable confusion). something must be gained. (still, the buried seems to must remain)
the smoke from my lungs, the dirty inability to speak what could be on my severed tongue.... still cut from my speech as i spill the ashes into something- nothing really, only a designated area of soon to be waste. and its odd how moments of ecstacy turn so quick with the slip of a word. the flow of a sentence, so innocent to one- so senile to another. smoking. dirty air that poors from my intestines, as if it were the pain- exiting my insides in slow breathes of betrayal.
we take this as an addiction.
Affliction from the past sinuos in our souls we know its a righteous time to release..... or let our corpses go....
a persons words are so in sync, so masked and linked with another involvement. and every sylabol may be every instinct lost; in a past- indifferent
and still spoken to last. smoking. times of yore pooring from our hearts, bloodstreams and confinements all at once, in every beat.... so much feeling, so restricted to one vein, to one place, (so kill its slowly) one second ignored. its an understatement buried beneath so much more. waiting. (intense but not surreal. nonsense.) inhaling slowely to understand something pure. and its a sylabol i tend to deny i still claim. the loss of its fame was the death of a child we all hide and
will always recognize.
smoking because its life inside the pain. its the desire to cleanse again in such an obscene way, as if the day may be erased by the breathes we take in vain.
inhale (unjust pollution). exhaling (uncontrollable confusion). something must be gained. (still, the buried seems to must remain)