the train hasnt arrived but the light 30 feet down shaves its nails
is this another night of daylight?
approach me while i reach into my pocket. watch me while i pull out my piano wire. ask me while i place the metal into my mouth. doubt me while i bite down forcing the needle into my tongue throat and cheek. oh would you kiss me my love? hold me still while i swallow razor wire with my daily placebos. my eyes burn. do yours fail like the vowels i drip? my eyes peel and grow red. the wire now pushes out of my sockets. oh would you pull it through my love? take this page of splinters and choke me darling. you're doing great. yes just a little bit more and my neck will shatter. my beautiful beautiful love would you let me know i have my own approval? this is another night of daylight.
in the midst of this crowd the pollen strikes my skin. i can't catch the bus when i'm hiding from its tires. to run from the pencaps is futile. they will always be there to let you know "I'm still lying in the spotlight of a three lane with my nine digit and your folded picture melting in my mouth to the left of my slit drip toungue."
i planned to let it be engulfed. take the switch and wires to my seat to yank the yellow and watch the red. but rather i followed the navigation. months to years to minutes added up to be prime and the picture taken beheld the face that weeks before had left pages of tales throughout many machines. the dear navigation's was number 4 and thought to be alone. now with the number 4 as the nights, bottles, and names of men with paper bags for heads offering butterknives as taunts. i rose from my seat and walked to the navigation and pulling out the back of the paper and unshielding the rest. knowing i had been number 2 and wanted as he did he spread his fingers. i then crushed each one with my heel and extended my nails for his ten steps of consent. then the lock of the door kept the noise of the unwilling to only enter our eyes. 30 feet from it all i look to him and bite my tongue through the hole from my wire entering just weeks before.
i could not cry. try as i could to scrape the top of my eraserless pencil against my temple i could not break the fence. the space left was black as asphalt and the number 4 was etched so repetitively in the dirt. Why am i always the matchbook?i have never once been the fern. and you have never been my camera so why wosuld you complain a day later today?
how am i no longeer scratched? when my bed has been nooses of sewing needles for the past 4 years. is pattern simply the lack of creativity you ask? or is it truly the form of it? i ask you but to reply you must know my answer. i have said it many times and while we all wait for the moment time has passed i say it again.
This can only grow harder. as the paperweights tell of the daylight and the cymbals cut holes in themselves. how am i to know the world lives on with my eyes closed? the blankets never cease to tell of my blindness. as i close my eyes you no longer breathe in front of my face. but rather 30 feet down the road i hear the train about to follow suit. but no i wont open my eyes. i cannot until i know if you know pain when i cant see it. the lottery of my gambling never slows on the tracks until i open my eyes. and no,i may be blind. but i felt the pain of the impact until i felt nothing at all. and for once while my eyes were glazed and blank white i wasnt dreaming of sight.
this is indeed another night of daylight. and the sweat and pieces of skin caught in my fingernails proves im no longer trying to sleep. goodnight and maybe the train hit me harder than the asphalt.
approach me while i reach into my pocket. watch me while i pull out my piano wire. ask me while i place the metal into my mouth. doubt me while i bite down forcing the needle into my tongue throat and cheek. oh would you kiss me my love? hold me still while i swallow razor wire with my daily placebos. my eyes burn. do yours fail like the vowels i drip? my eyes peel and grow red. the wire now pushes out of my sockets. oh would you pull it through my love? take this page of splinters and choke me darling. you're doing great. yes just a little bit more and my neck will shatter. my beautiful beautiful love would you let me know i have my own approval? this is another night of daylight.
in the midst of this crowd the pollen strikes my skin. i can't catch the bus when i'm hiding from its tires. to run from the pencaps is futile. they will always be there to let you know "I'm still lying in the spotlight of a three lane with my nine digit and your folded picture melting in my mouth to the left of my slit drip toungue."
i planned to let it be engulfed. take the switch and wires to my seat to yank the yellow and watch the red. but rather i followed the navigation. months to years to minutes added up to be prime and the picture taken beheld the face that weeks before had left pages of tales throughout many machines. the dear navigation's was number 4 and thought to be alone. now with the number 4 as the nights, bottles, and names of men with paper bags for heads offering butterknives as taunts. i rose from my seat and walked to the navigation and pulling out the back of the paper and unshielding the rest. knowing i had been number 2 and wanted as he did he spread his fingers. i then crushed each one with my heel and extended my nails for his ten steps of consent. then the lock of the door kept the noise of the unwilling to only enter our eyes. 30 feet from it all i look to him and bite my tongue through the hole from my wire entering just weeks before.
i could not cry. try as i could to scrape the top of my eraserless pencil against my temple i could not break the fence. the space left was black as asphalt and the number 4 was etched so repetitively in the dirt. Why am i always the matchbook?i have never once been the fern. and you have never been my camera so why wosuld you complain a day later today?
how am i no longeer scratched? when my bed has been nooses of sewing needles for the past 4 years. is pattern simply the lack of creativity you ask? or is it truly the form of it? i ask you but to reply you must know my answer. i have said it many times and while we all wait for the moment time has passed i say it again.
This can only grow harder. as the paperweights tell of the daylight and the cymbals cut holes in themselves. how am i to know the world lives on with my eyes closed? the blankets never cease to tell of my blindness. as i close my eyes you no longer breathe in front of my face. but rather 30 feet down the road i hear the train about to follow suit. but no i wont open my eyes. i cannot until i know if you know pain when i cant see it. the lottery of my gambling never slows on the tracks until i open my eyes. and no,i may be blind. but i felt the pain of the impact until i felt nothing at all. and for once while my eyes were glazed and blank white i wasnt dreaming of sight.
this is indeed another night of daylight. and the sweat and pieces of skin caught in my fingernails proves im no longer trying to sleep. goodnight and maybe the train hit me harder than the asphalt.