Ask; Just Answer
How does curiosity kill the cat? Does it, in it’s sleep, dream of their lover off with someone else, while waiting to hear back? Does it demand knowledge? Does it require honesty? Does the cat’s heart twist and turn until it decides to hack out another hairball in hopes the cat will coke? Is that how curiosity kills the cat?
Are the questions the toxin? Are the blanks really bullets?
Does it bother you that I need to know these things? Does each bit of punctuation makes you anxious and claw your own chest? Does it make you uncomfortable like an uncontrollable bowel movement?
I hope not. It sounds unpleasing.
In fact, I didn’t need to know. At the same time, I didn’t need you to sit so close. I didn’t need you to run your fingers in my hair as I sat there thinking I was alone. You made your presence known. I felt it between my legs. You didn’t need to say you cared. I felt it between my fingers. You didn’t need to make this right. I felt it between my lips.
Gone is the word to describe something that was once there and is no longer in the same place. I’m not sure what that means. I asked a man sitting on the street. He was taking reflective pieces of shit and calling them art and arranging them in some kind of cluster fuck. He said, “It can’t be gone if it was never there”. I asked him what it meant to be “there”, but he had no fucking clue. Ass hole. He masqueraded as the man who said, “FUCK YOU” to society thinking he could come up with his own answers, but failed to realize, curiosity of the rest of the world owns his soul. He cannot escape.
So I spend most of my time, taking the photos of you and blurring them out-so that I can compare you to Loch Ness or Big Food. You were hideous anyways. I say this to make me feel, not better, but crazy.
I told the doctor this; she said I don’t need a cure only time. She also said that was pretty fucked up. Or maybe I was pretty fucked up. But time, seriously? Fucking bitch didn’t realize time is the only thing I own now. She didn’t realize that I, like her, am a slave to 365 days per year calendar. She didn’t know that some one or sometimes two digit number dictates where I go next.
They think there is no animosity. I tell them they are right. However, what truth they want to believe is up to them.
I just want to know how you plan to kill me. I learned that you have no time. You burned away into the atmosphere taking the oxygen with you. A flame I chose not to smother. I flame I should of just stomped the hell out of it. Will you burn me with my questions by not providing the answers? Perfect. We’ll see how this lasts. I got the time-do you have will?
Are the questions the toxin? Are the blanks really bullets?
Does it bother you that I need to know these things? Does each bit of punctuation makes you anxious and claw your own chest? Does it make you uncomfortable like an uncontrollable bowel movement?
I hope not. It sounds unpleasing.
In fact, I didn’t need to know. At the same time, I didn’t need you to sit so close. I didn’t need you to run your fingers in my hair as I sat there thinking I was alone. You made your presence known. I felt it between my legs. You didn’t need to say you cared. I felt it between my fingers. You didn’t need to make this right. I felt it between my lips.
Gone is the word to describe something that was once there and is no longer in the same place. I’m not sure what that means. I asked a man sitting on the street. He was taking reflective pieces of shit and calling them art and arranging them in some kind of cluster fuck. He said, “It can’t be gone if it was never there”. I asked him what it meant to be “there”, but he had no fucking clue. Ass hole. He masqueraded as the man who said, “FUCK YOU” to society thinking he could come up with his own answers, but failed to realize, curiosity of the rest of the world owns his soul. He cannot escape.
So I spend most of my time, taking the photos of you and blurring them out-so that I can compare you to Loch Ness or Big Food. You were hideous anyways. I say this to make me feel, not better, but crazy.
I told the doctor this; she said I don’t need a cure only time. She also said that was pretty fucked up. Or maybe I was pretty fucked up. But time, seriously? Fucking bitch didn’t realize time is the only thing I own now. She didn’t realize that I, like her, am a slave to 365 days per year calendar. She didn’t know that some one or sometimes two digit number dictates where I go next.
They think there is no animosity. I tell them they are right. However, what truth they want to believe is up to them.
I just want to know how you plan to kill me. I learned that you have no time. You burned away into the atmosphere taking the oxygen with you. A flame I chose not to smother. I flame I should of just stomped the hell out of it. Will you burn me with my questions by not providing the answers? Perfect. We’ll see how this lasts. I got the time-do you have will?