(no subject)
__i keep adding notes to my hands that i refuse to forget. i cry at silly pictures and hate the cold in my toes. my touch is tainted with dark swirls and spirals, and my mouth spouts lies and half-truths and wishes that i want so much to be reality. i torture myself, watching the ashes fall from fingers that i've stained with my time in all your darkest asylums. i think of all the time that's gone by, and how you've forgotten about me, all of you. strangers burn their brands into my palms and i scrub tortured to wash it away. these big broad hands that create and destroy without remorse, unmatched only by my tongue, whose slings and arrows ruin countries and start wars.
__i have been locked inside a lack of concentration camp, straining through the thorns to see your face which will never again smile for me.
__instead, i find myself pushing my head onto skating rinks in montreal; forcing my free-verse frame to suit someone else's sonnet style. this too is a lie. i am finally coming into my own, being alive inside of my skin instead of being alone. all the dew stars and concrete diamonds in the world could save me now, but instead i chose my prison of chalkless lines and colouring books. i need to get away. i'm running out of time and i'm running out the door. and if the niagra could freeze over my eyes would be glued shut 'til june. instead i'll just smoke away my empty days of self-wellness, lapis blues and cadmium reds until you realize what you're missing and start looking for it in vein.
__someone else's one song glory is starting up around you. but you wont hear it until you've bled through your ears.
__i have been locked inside a lack of concentration camp, straining through the thorns to see your face which will never again smile for me.
__instead, i find myself pushing my head onto skating rinks in montreal; forcing my free-verse frame to suit someone else's sonnet style. this too is a lie. i am finally coming into my own, being alive inside of my skin instead of being alone. all the dew stars and concrete diamonds in the world could save me now, but instead i chose my prison of chalkless lines and colouring books. i need to get away. i'm running out of time and i'm running out the door. and if the niagra could freeze over my eyes would be glued shut 'til june. instead i'll just smoke away my empty days of self-wellness, lapis blues and cadmium reds until you realize what you're missing and start looking for it in vein.
__someone else's one song glory is starting up around you. but you wont hear it until you've bled through your ears.