Notes.
Contemplating a hair-cut on a Sunday night with nothing but the bane of rain to keep me company, it seems at times that this lack turns into a burn or a crack,
or a remnant of sleep that I never remember to keep until I awake.
It seems the more I try to become a metaphor,
the more the words try to come in my brain,
the more that each day become a train ride of insane,
it seems the more I try,
the more need I succeed in destroying.
Courage ebbs like smoke,
like the tide that rides my gravel beaches to death.
With each breath,
I make a new past.
Put childish things to sleep with cigarettes and cellophane.
Just wait to go insane.
I want to make a new pact.
Forget about well-wishers who lean too far over and disappear.
Mistake all the sunsets.
Heal.
or a remnant of sleep that I never remember to keep until I awake.
It seems the more I try to become a metaphor,
the more the words try to come in my brain,
the more that each day become a train ride of insane,
it seems the more I try,
the more need I succeed in destroying.
Courage ebbs like smoke,
like the tide that rides my gravel beaches to death.
With each breath,
I make a new past.
Put childish things to sleep with cigarettes and cellophane.
Just wait to go insane.
I want to make a new pact.
Forget about well-wishers who lean too far over and disappear.
Mistake all the sunsets.
Heal.