I still found a way out, a way to the stars:
The three cigarettes I have left aren't enough to last me for what I'm about to attempt, and my guess is that I'll soon grow frustrated and quit.
Pick and choose your battles.
Try tackling this in sessions rather than all at once.
The only thing that I can think to begin this with is the assurance that I am happy right now. I'm not saying that there's a bright, glowing, aura, surrounding me. Euphoria was never mentioned, but I am happy on some queer level or another.
As happy as I can be.
I'm not even promising that I'm really here.
In this case, reassurance is a cynical joke. I can't tell you that whatever you knew of Clinton will be peering back out at you when you look in to my eyes and not something vacant with furrowed brows.
Hostile.
Always something new, but new things aren't always kind.
Wait.
Let's start over.
What you see might seem very distant and distracted, but I swear to GOD that it's watching very intently, and its lost it's mind.
I've lost my head again with ideas of bloody and satisfying retribution.
I guess this changes everything.
At this very second, I'm sitting at a picnic table near a playground. It's sunny and there's a slight breeze. My scenery is waving grass and a cemetary decorating the hillside.
There aren't any swings on this particular playground and I'm honestly thankful.
This is another one of those days when they hang caution signs all along the outside of the cage.
"Do not feed the animal."
"Keep all limbs and body parts on designated side of the safety fence."
No one bothers to read the fine print, "because if you don't you're likely to get your fucking head ripped off."
Those poor, careless, souls, don't understand just how hungry I am and I can't say I care enough.
For the record: There's a flash of red; Flesh is usually pink and white.
During feeding time, they stare dumbfoundly with either wonder or disgust. Probably a mixture of both. I stare back with curiousity. I wonder if they've ever had a truly intelligent or passionate thought.
Have they ever dared to step out of the lines or peak outside the box?
There are gold sparkles on a thin gold string that came from a belt that was thrown at me with a smile and good intentions.
Under a bed, in a dark corner, stares a teddy-bear named Rupert. I wonder if he still has your smell? There is a red drug-free bracelet around his neck just incase he gets lost, there will always be a way home.
In one of my bags is a prescription to someone I used to know.
It's very convienant that, "I love you," and ."I loathe you," sound so similar.
Failing hope and awkward relief come with sobriety, but I've only broken half of my promise. I smile everyday as I become a little more of my dad and a supposedly vanquished past.
I've lost it, but gained something else. Either way I really don't care. Though I can't feel anything, I still touch. I still search for eyes bright enough to burn me that remind me of yours. Everything is fairly typical, or typical enough, but I'm still baffled at how much you've touched.
Take a bite, one more for the memory.
Like lovers we were left alone to dread the days of mouths to feed and no one to come. All the while screaming, "Save us!
Words are only fragments of letters, so congratulation on your bullshit novel, motherfucker.
I am the lesser man.
Put on a happy face.
Let's make this pleasant.
Just for Christ's sake, wait up for me, I've been running forever.
I am not surprised when I find myself on my knees reaching for the sky.
I AM THE GREATEST OF ALL PRETENDERS.
I remember what I told you. I could've sworn that you were deaf. I told you how everything takes a piece of me, and again when there was nothing left.
Everyday a little more leaves.
I know this place.
Here I will lie with seven years bad luck pasted all around me.
I don't believe in miracles anymore.
-6:56 pm
-Clinton Hate
Pick and choose your battles.
Try tackling this in sessions rather than all at once.
The only thing that I can think to begin this with is the assurance that I am happy right now. I'm not saying that there's a bright, glowing, aura, surrounding me. Euphoria was never mentioned, but I am happy on some queer level or another.
As happy as I can be.
I'm not even promising that I'm really here.
In this case, reassurance is a cynical joke. I can't tell you that whatever you knew of Clinton will be peering back out at you when you look in to my eyes and not something vacant with furrowed brows.
Hostile.
Always something new, but new things aren't always kind.
Wait.
Let's start over.
What you see might seem very distant and distracted, but I swear to GOD that it's watching very intently, and its lost it's mind.
I've lost my head again with ideas of bloody and satisfying retribution.
I guess this changes everything.
At this very second, I'm sitting at a picnic table near a playground. It's sunny and there's a slight breeze. My scenery is waving grass and a cemetary decorating the hillside.
There aren't any swings on this particular playground and I'm honestly thankful.
This is another one of those days when they hang caution signs all along the outside of the cage.
"Do not feed the animal."
"Keep all limbs and body parts on designated side of the safety fence."
No one bothers to read the fine print, "because if you don't you're likely to get your fucking head ripped off."
Those poor, careless, souls, don't understand just how hungry I am and I can't say I care enough.
For the record: There's a flash of red; Flesh is usually pink and white.
During feeding time, they stare dumbfoundly with either wonder or disgust. Probably a mixture of both. I stare back with curiousity. I wonder if they've ever had a truly intelligent or passionate thought.
Have they ever dared to step out of the lines or peak outside the box?
There are gold sparkles on a thin gold string that came from a belt that was thrown at me with a smile and good intentions.
Under a bed, in a dark corner, stares a teddy-bear named Rupert. I wonder if he still has your smell? There is a red drug-free bracelet around his neck just incase he gets lost, there will always be a way home.
In one of my bags is a prescription to someone I used to know.
It's very convienant that, "I love you," and ."I loathe you," sound so similar.
Failing hope and awkward relief come with sobriety, but I've only broken half of my promise. I smile everyday as I become a little more of my dad and a supposedly vanquished past.
I've lost it, but gained something else. Either way I really don't care. Though I can't feel anything, I still touch. I still search for eyes bright enough to burn me that remind me of yours. Everything is fairly typical, or typical enough, but I'm still baffled at how much you've touched.
Take a bite, one more for the memory.
Like lovers we were left alone to dread the days of mouths to feed and no one to come. All the while screaming, "Save us!
Words are only fragments of letters, so congratulation on your bullshit novel, motherfucker.
I am the lesser man.
Put on a happy face.
Let's make this pleasant.
Just for Christ's sake, wait up for me, I've been running forever.
I am not surprised when I find myself on my knees reaching for the sky.
I AM THE GREATEST OF ALL PRETENDERS.
I remember what I told you. I could've sworn that you were deaf. I told you how everything takes a piece of me, and again when there was nothing left.
Everyday a little more leaves.
I know this place.
Here I will lie with seven years bad luck pasted all around me.
I don't believe in miracles anymore.
-6:56 pm
-Clinton Hate