Hello stranger.
Hello bright new day,
dance your sunlit dance for me.
Hello breath of air,
give me life.
Hello stranger in the street,
smile at me.
Hello stranger.
Hello smile,
feed my vanity.
Hello masochism,
strain to hurt me.
Hello stranger in the street,
rape me.
Hello stranger.
Hello bloody sunset,
entrall me.
Hello hands,
cadaver me.
Hello stranger in the street,
suffocate me.
Hello stranger.
Have you ever noticed that thoughts unravel themselves like eager, unexpected gifts. Gift after gift, the lace wrapping flows out of your mind unnoticed, as the thought process takes control. Sweeping over my conscience, each fluid drip of the intoxicating sequence anews itself. And then like an ocean full of endless undulations, the mind sings in rhymes and other-worldly foreign dialects. Once the eurphoria of recieving this gift has finally died, sullen to it's grave of being stored away into a forsaken cabinet, sheltered into the brain; Another gift embroidered in the same lace repeats the cycle.
Who says these thoughts have to be like gifts. They can be quite disturbing as well. But confined to your own mind, incapable of telepathic rights, I'd agree with myself in knowing you'd go mad as well. Once I thought about murdering my mother. Swift and quick a plunge to the head, to gouge out her eyes. Not a quick death, as I know she'd be clasping her ridiculed pain, as I laugh at her. Laughing, smiling melodically. The thought is not a gift, but a curse. Curse it be, devoured like a gift anyway.
Thoughts.
dance your sunlit dance for me.
Hello breath of air,
give me life.
Hello stranger in the street,
smile at me.
Hello stranger.
Hello smile,
feed my vanity.
Hello masochism,
strain to hurt me.
Hello stranger in the street,
rape me.
Hello stranger.
Hello bloody sunset,
entrall me.
Hello hands,
cadaver me.
Hello stranger in the street,
suffocate me.
Hello stranger.
Have you ever noticed that thoughts unravel themselves like eager, unexpected gifts. Gift after gift, the lace wrapping flows out of your mind unnoticed, as the thought process takes control. Sweeping over my conscience, each fluid drip of the intoxicating sequence anews itself. And then like an ocean full of endless undulations, the mind sings in rhymes and other-worldly foreign dialects. Once the eurphoria of recieving this gift has finally died, sullen to it's grave of being stored away into a forsaken cabinet, sheltered into the brain; Another gift embroidered in the same lace repeats the cycle.
Who says these thoughts have to be like gifts. They can be quite disturbing as well. But confined to your own mind, incapable of telepathic rights, I'd agree with myself in knowing you'd go mad as well. Once I thought about murdering my mother. Swift and quick a plunge to the head, to gouge out her eyes. Not a quick death, as I know she'd be clasping her ridiculed pain, as I laugh at her. Laughing, smiling melodically. The thought is not a gift, but a curse. Curse it be, devoured like a gift anyway.
Thoughts.