|
|
|
Fucker 1:03 a.m. 2005-12-11 Split second reactionary you are a caustic dissolution equal parts naivety dread and that sense of having cold fingers wrapped around your throat like the choices you made had come back to haunt you. In that haze of sensory deception are you breathing deep or screaming and the ether filling that room in your head crowded with photographs and journals, filled with all the things you held dear. When you close your eyes the lines painted on the inside of your eyelids are nothing more than cancer, the residue of that last indulgence that felt more like surrender, playing itself out straight before you in the darkness. So you sit in that dark ass room, legs crossed like you're going somewhere deep inside and the tears are leaking out through bitter memories and an inability to fucking face the welts and the diseases that are fading in and out like waves over the radio in my car on that long drive home. You think you're chaning, growing, you think that every time your eyes open, they're opening a little bit wider but you're just squeezing tight and dreaming isn't the same as living and what's the point in the dreams if you cannot strive to make them something like some pathetic semblance of reality? You're in a state of mental delusion and you're wondering which side of your eyes/mind/soul the hallucinations are hiding? This this ascension or deception? back & forth |