(no subject)
This system is flawed,
This way of communication.
It's the way thought transfers from words through my fingers again
Into these languages that we set the pace with,
To draw out a conversation that we all feed ourselves with daily,
until we get sleepy from staring at a daydream,
That could have or should have better but didn't.
I can explain, but I can't make it simple,
Because it's too easy to just reach the light switch and flick it.
Shut it off and go to sleep at the first sign of disinterest.
But I don't want to make any kind of hidden assumptions or decisions.
These are symptoms of a person who got lucky.
Impossibilities to use integrity effectively.
Flawed chemistry. 8 week long sobriety checkpoint.
Muffled voice. No choice but to fight the sight,
And the sounds and the noise.
That's the chaos within.
My patience runs thin, and it's useless to beat a horse when it's dead,
So I will find a way to release the ideas in my head,
To put everything in its right place.
Until I'm in the grave.
Until everything is canceled and given cancer of the brain.
Collapsing every day.
It's a facade when I say there's nothing wrong with me.
Trying to keep it together - one piece.
One story I can't forget, under my breath.
I still remember how it stormed all day when you left.
These raindrops keep falling on my head,
and one can try to think forever-it will work until they're dead.
Until they're the margins in the page.
Cauterized and vague, until the focus separates the vision from the space,
Where it's understood and made into memories and events with a time and a place.
I can't help but quarantine what i say.
Keep it in a frame where the colors never fade.
Did you want to know my name?
This way of communication.
It's the way thought transfers from words through my fingers again
Into these languages that we set the pace with,
To draw out a conversation that we all feed ourselves with daily,
until we get sleepy from staring at a daydream,
That could have or should have better but didn't.
I can explain, but I can't make it simple,
Because it's too easy to just reach the light switch and flick it.
Shut it off and go to sleep at the first sign of disinterest.
But I don't want to make any kind of hidden assumptions or decisions.
These are symptoms of a person who got lucky.
Impossibilities to use integrity effectively.
Flawed chemistry. 8 week long sobriety checkpoint.
Muffled voice. No choice but to fight the sight,
And the sounds and the noise.
That's the chaos within.
My patience runs thin, and it's useless to beat a horse when it's dead,
So I will find a way to release the ideas in my head,
To put everything in its right place.
Until I'm in the grave.
Until everything is canceled and given cancer of the brain.
Collapsing every day.
It's a facade when I say there's nothing wrong with me.
Trying to keep it together - one piece.
One story I can't forget, under my breath.
I still remember how it stormed all day when you left.
These raindrops keep falling on my head,
and one can try to think forever-it will work until they're dead.
Until they're the margins in the page.
Cauterized and vague, until the focus separates the vision from the space,
Where it's understood and made into memories and events with a time and a place.
I can't help but quarantine what i say.
Keep it in a frame where the colors never fade.
Did you want to know my name?