(no subject)
It’s getting to me.
I can hear him scream every night from the streets.
I’m beginning to think this man is a charlatan of some sort.
He keeps pacing back and forth across the wet concrete
I’m tired of watching him.
Even when I try to sleep he is still pacing and screaming erratically.
I don’t even know what he’s screaming about or what he is saying.
Does anyone else even hear this idiot? Why doesn’t someone call the officials? I surely can’t because I do not want officers coming up to my room asking me their exasperating questions.
Something pisses me off about a man in a uniform taping his pen on a small pad while jotting down my words verbatim. Then again, like that annoying officer, I write exactly what Mr. Scientist has to say between three fifty to five whatever.
Maybe I will just alter the use of my hand until I am tired.
I can put that same hand to different use. It changes its function from a student to a pervert. The hormones poison me as my wounds are reopened, past experiences are revisited. I give a new meaning to beating off. Then when I sleep at night I can’t get this filthy fucking stench off my hands. I hope he shuts up soon.
One thing is for sure… I never sleep alone, especially when you realize that your window is a mirror.
I can hear him scream every night from the streets.
I’m beginning to think this man is a charlatan of some sort.
He keeps pacing back and forth across the wet concrete
I’m tired of watching him.
Even when I try to sleep he is still pacing and screaming erratically.
I don’t even know what he’s screaming about or what he is saying.
Does anyone else even hear this idiot? Why doesn’t someone call the officials? I surely can’t because I do not want officers coming up to my room asking me their exasperating questions.
Something pisses me off about a man in a uniform taping his pen on a small pad while jotting down my words verbatim. Then again, like that annoying officer, I write exactly what Mr. Scientist has to say between three fifty to five whatever.
Maybe I will just alter the use of my hand until I am tired.
I can put that same hand to different use. It changes its function from a student to a pervert. The hormones poison me as my wounds are reopened, past experiences are revisited. I give a new meaning to beating off. Then when I sleep at night I can’t get this filthy fucking stench off my hands. I hope he shuts up soon.
One thing is for sure… I never sleep alone, especially when you realize that your window is a mirror.