I’m the most self loathing human on the planet. I love pain and agony and I wallow in both as often as I can. There is the idea that it brings inspiration, that it brings some fucked up form of clarity, that I can’t stand to see without a little massacre. It’s so fucking macabre, so 1986 Goth, so 2009 emo, so setting my place in history as the mistress of the great “blah, blah, blah”. It’s how this goes. I inspire and they work like demons searching from fresh souls, bathing themselves in my gore, my tedium. Each beat of my heart feeding one of these monsters, one of these hungry gremlins that just wants to devour what they perceive as an abundance of strength and intensity.
The idea better than the vessel.
Lapping at my dark, moist, walls looking for their own scent
proof that somewhere I must belong here
…with them
…at this very moment
but they ask questions
and they talk
.
.
.
too much
.
.
.
The redundancy of it all, if this were a different time I’d have the “vapors” and be faint….ALLTHEFUCKINGTIME!
I could scream or yell if I had any kind of leg to stand on…
but I don’t
so I can’t
so I won’t
I could slice myself open with this paring knife
watch myself bleed
feel…something….anything other than this
but scars don’t look good on girls and my abandon for discretion has subsided in my old age
The idea better than the vessel.
Lapping at my dark, moist, walls looking for their own scent
proof that somewhere I must belong here
…with them
…at this very moment
but they ask questions
and they talk
.
.
.
too much
.
.
.
The redundancy of it all, if this were a different time I’d have the “vapors” and be faint….ALLTHEFUCKINGTIME!
I could scream or yell if I had any kind of leg to stand on…
but I don’t
so I can’t
so I won’t
I could slice myself open with this paring knife
watch myself bleed
feel…something….anything other than this
but scars don’t look good on girls and my abandon for discretion has subsided in my old age
sex:
civil disobedience in a war zone
balancing on the tightrope of destruction as I look back and wave
Real life Mario Brothers, running to catch the flag at the end, hoping time hasn’t expired.
He looks coyly back and grins and what can I do?
What can I say?
Freedom is a four letter word for fucked-up
This state of grace is just the path to martyrdom
Don’t worry, sunshine, this too will fade in the morning light.