I know my pre-calculated charm will soon run low.
Half cocked all nighters spent entwined in the solace of a lonely balcony overseering the world and it's cess; retreating inside oneself with the onus of the few panted breaths of mental afterglow. Shaking and trembling in the mouth of madness, writhing under the thumb of the pressing compulsion to dismiss the impending depression that's sure to follow the high. The scene couldn't help being made, and now it's solitude, not the same as solitary, but definitely a confinement that's going to infect any helping hand like the blankets I gave to them the last bleak night they needed them. As they sleep, I'm awake and wide, contemplating, plotting, in a withdrawn state of analytical debauchery, pounding out scripture and gospel for the next gaddabout at the races, so to speak; if I don't get this one right, it's back here tomorrow night, waiting for the sweet release of muse or the sweet self loathing of failure.
Mutually assured destruction is set between the night and I, watching the clouds scud by like the broken bodies of the parts I played before, I have no choice to shed a tear for the spines that have been given out and never returned; I didn't want to lose them, but now I have, I have surely lost a lot. They'll come back, I recant, hopefully, their duty is set in stone, no matter the castration of which that'll skip scarring them as I've done myself.
Fickle bastard sky, mocking me with your freedom, I'd rend and drag you to Earth if I could harness half the man I think I am, Hell, half the man I wish I were. Hence the helplessness, the bread bought doesn't sate the hunger, nor match the current palette; just a continuation of a wolf haggardly dragging a sheepskin, couldn't be more of a folly, couldn't be more than what I am. The usual point where my mind spins after looking up for too long, the dizzying impulse of vertigo pulls this kid back from the rails and forces him to sit down and know his place. If only I knew my Goddamned place.
Teenage angst bullshit aside, the floodgates let up, and it's all those nifty thriftkick mental cliff notes trying to board up the aqueducts before this city sinks knee deep in scathe; not for the purpose of the preservation of it's people, but to protect the sad, sorry piece of trash venting uselessly into an overcast Summer night. Delving deeper into the impending shitstorm of taking truncheon to rust stains on one's armour, I reflect on the disposition I've taken on the subject, to neglect to be led around by the throat into hopeless thoughts by the gheist of perdition; to instead embrace the rollicking tide of silent repressed anguish over a feeble pretense of grief, just for a vent, just to let go; or at least try.
The dialtone is comforting though, minutes pass into hours, and I try my hand at receiving help at the cost of another's look towards the charm that brought them here. It's poison, the ties will be severed, cut, or castrated; I needed this, help from where I am... I'm working on it, I'm sorry.
I hoped for a different you.
Hell, I hoped for a different me.
Mutually assured destruction is set between the night and I, watching the clouds scud by like the broken bodies of the parts I played before, I have no choice to shed a tear for the spines that have been given out and never returned; I didn't want to lose them, but now I have, I have surely lost a lot. They'll come back, I recant, hopefully, their duty is set in stone, no matter the castration of which that'll skip scarring them as I've done myself.
Fickle bastard sky, mocking me with your freedom, I'd rend and drag you to Earth if I could harness half the man I think I am, Hell, half the man I wish I were. Hence the helplessness, the bread bought doesn't sate the hunger, nor match the current palette; just a continuation of a wolf haggardly dragging a sheepskin, couldn't be more of a folly, couldn't be more than what I am. The usual point where my mind spins after looking up for too long, the dizzying impulse of vertigo pulls this kid back from the rails and forces him to sit down and know his place. If only I knew my Goddamned place.
Teenage angst bullshit aside, the floodgates let up, and it's all those nifty thriftkick mental cliff notes trying to board up the aqueducts before this city sinks knee deep in scathe; not for the purpose of the preservation of it's people, but to protect the sad, sorry piece of trash venting uselessly into an overcast Summer night. Delving deeper into the impending shitstorm of taking truncheon to rust stains on one's armour, I reflect on the disposition I've taken on the subject, to neglect to be led around by the throat into hopeless thoughts by the gheist of perdition; to instead embrace the rollicking tide of silent repressed anguish over a feeble pretense of grief, just for a vent, just to let go; or at least try.
The dialtone is comforting though, minutes pass into hours, and I try my hand at receiving help at the cost of another's look towards the charm that brought them here. It's poison, the ties will be severed, cut, or castrated; I needed this, help from where I am... I'm working on it, I'm sorry.
I hoped for a different you.
Hell, I hoped for a different me.