So the sickness is through
I've always said that if the cure doesn't kill you
then the convict hiding on the next block will
but who ever listens to me anyway
on the train going downtown
the world flies by
my mind drifts somewhere along behind it
no "me" in future
"I always cry over words I lose."
"Write that down."
"Nah, it's not my style."
"Then keep crying.
"Write THAT down."
Once when I was young I fell and broke my arm on the carpet
I was wearing skates
and a lady told me that surely my arm couldn't be broken because it was turning blue
(nevermind the obvious shard of bone about to breach the skin)
my head says I couldn't be in love with you
but obviously the integrity of my flesh is being threatened and I can't help but ask myself, am I a fool?
these words are limp and weightless
about as deep as recycled celtic dreams of past lifetimes which are really just a crutch, something to give these pathetic assholes a reason to believe that they may be fucking losers now but once upon a time every single one of us were dragon slayers and princesses.
In my past life I was an utter and complete void. Nothingness in all it's brilliance. Because I did not exist.
Now my glory exists in the unseen strand loosely binding the two of us via a small breach of flesh just over our ribs.
The flesh might be blue but I swear I think I'm in love.