All's fair in love and war;
I walk on this battle ground and wage war on this world; Full of hate.
Full of something.
With and intense and bewildered stare, I let my eyes map out the room; The beams of light blow over the grass and water like the wind, creating waves of shadows.
Watching these things, I feel phenominal.
My chest shuddering with my pulse. The beating of my borderline heart.
My threatening, preplanned, hand grenade, as it were and more than likely always will be. Ceaselessly searching for some new war or battle. Another line to cross.
The urge to seek out higher ground is damn near overwhelming, but then again, in these cases, it usually is.
This isn't exactly a war, for the record; WAR is not the right word, but it is the first word that comes to mind, but I am having a tough time coming to terms with this brand new concept of happiness. The viscious gnawing of needing another to coexist and function in life has let up, if it hasn't vanished completely.
The smell of burning bridges is thick in the air. I close my eyes tightly as the smoke makes its way up my body, to my charcoal streaked face.
I can't find room for care or consideration at this point.
FIREFIRE
all around.
Breathe.
I hold it in, and as it chokes past the point in my throat, I almost savor the burning.
It is utterly i n t o x i c a t i n g.
The world began with a whimper, not a BANG.
I knew it began to take hold when I couldn't feel my hands.
When the lights started swaying.
Growing and shrinking-
Dimming and then flashing in a new, yet familiar, brilliance.
I knew when I lost circulation in my knees.
For the record:
You can take on all the hordes and armies of the world when you cannot feel your body.
WHY ARE THEIR NOISES SO OFFENSIVE?
Sitting afloat on top of this seat, anchored to nothing at all.
There's one thing I have to say so I'll be brave;
You were what I wanted, I gave what I gave.
I'm not sorry I met you.
I'm not sorry it's over.
I'm not sorry there's nothing to save.
-5:28 a.m.
-Clinton Hate
Full of something.
With and intense and bewildered stare, I let my eyes map out the room; The beams of light blow over the grass and water like the wind, creating waves of shadows.
Watching these things, I feel phenominal.
My chest shuddering with my pulse. The beating of my borderline heart.
My threatening, preplanned, hand grenade, as it were and more than likely always will be. Ceaselessly searching for some new war or battle. Another line to cross.
The urge to seek out higher ground is damn near overwhelming, but then again, in these cases, it usually is.
This isn't exactly a war, for the record; WAR is not the right word, but it is the first word that comes to mind, but I am having a tough time coming to terms with this brand new concept of happiness. The viscious gnawing of needing another to coexist and function in life has let up, if it hasn't vanished completely.
The smell of burning bridges is thick in the air. I close my eyes tightly as the smoke makes its way up my body, to my charcoal streaked face.
I can't find room for care or consideration at this point.
FIREFIRE
all around.
Breathe.
I hold it in, and as it chokes past the point in my throat, I almost savor the burning.
It is utterly i n t o x i c a t i n g.
The world began with a whimper, not a BANG.
I knew it began to take hold when I couldn't feel my hands.
When the lights started swaying.
Growing and shrinking-
Dimming and then flashing in a new, yet familiar, brilliance.
I knew when I lost circulation in my knees.
For the record:
You can take on all the hordes and armies of the world when you cannot feel your body.
WHY ARE THEIR NOISES SO OFFENSIVE?
Sitting afloat on top of this seat, anchored to nothing at all.
There's one thing I have to say so I'll be brave;
You were what I wanted, I gave what I gave.
I'm not sorry I met you.
I'm not sorry it's over.
I'm not sorry there's nothing to save.
-5:28 a.m.
-Clinton Hate