incoherent like burroughs.
i've been asleep for over four months. i can no longer remember my life. i witness it and nothing more. my memory is unreliable; it's interrupted by things i only think i see.
i thrive on my own personal, internal, spiritual, MEANINGFUL war. my turmoil fuels me. trying to prevent it only makes it grow. it grows stronger everyday.
i walk unconscioulsy and know exactly what i do. i know the results of my actions before i make them and yet never take them into consideration. my life is ammunition. my...my actions are ammunitions to bring ME down. i breathe a toxic smoke to blow everyone else off. i breathe to keep everyone else away. i have no voice of reason so i try to keep my mouth shut.
i run into and trip over myself. i am not grac. and i am not relatable.
i've been throwing fits all my life and yet i still feel fine. i'm only as healthy as i feel and i only feel half as bad as i look...or is it i only feel half as good as i look?
my life's events bleed together. it all just fades out and into something older. i'm not sure when things happened. time is free-falling. the world spins around me and inanimate objects breathe heavier than me.
this town weighs on me heavier than humidity and the people come over me like a heat wave. their objections to life's activities are contagious.
i am a possesion: used once and tossed away like paper trash. but i'm recycled more often than not. life is good.
my own voice is incoherent, even to myself. my writing more so.
i am sick. i am unhealthy and unclean. a good rain will wash me away. i don't think i'd fight back.
the air burns my eyes like ice burns my hands. but closing my eyes (or closing my hand over the ice) makes me restless. i can't help but move around. i think this type of moving is referred to as squirming?
i thrive on my own personal, internal, spiritual, MEANINGFUL war. my turmoil fuels me. trying to prevent it only makes it grow. it grows stronger everyday.
i walk unconscioulsy and know exactly what i do. i know the results of my actions before i make them and yet never take them into consideration. my life is ammunition. my...my actions are ammunitions to bring ME down. i breathe a toxic smoke to blow everyone else off. i breathe to keep everyone else away. i have no voice of reason so i try to keep my mouth shut.
i run into and trip over myself. i am not grac. and i am not relatable.
i've been throwing fits all my life and yet i still feel fine. i'm only as healthy as i feel and i only feel half as bad as i look...or is it i only feel half as good as i look?
my life's events bleed together. it all just fades out and into something older. i'm not sure when things happened. time is free-falling. the world spins around me and inanimate objects breathe heavier than me.
this town weighs on me heavier than humidity and the people come over me like a heat wave. their objections to life's activities are contagious.
i am a possesion: used once and tossed away like paper trash. but i'm recycled more often than not. life is good.
my own voice is incoherent, even to myself. my writing more so.
i am sick. i am unhealthy and unclean. a good rain will wash me away. i don't think i'd fight back.
the air burns my eyes like ice burns my hands. but closing my eyes (or closing my hand over the ice) makes me restless. i can't help but move around. i think this type of moving is referred to as squirming?