Honestly I could rip out my entrails and feed them to wild dogs
or cannibals, while still attached to my core.
The constant back-and-forth
not knowing who I am
or who I should be
is crushing me, suffocating under my own weight.
Sometimes I believe that massacres are vital and
special. Words seem important, so the lack there of
shifts my epicenter.
I want to apologize, I have no idea why.
Struggling, with the idea that I myself
am easily interchangable- like an inanimate object.
I am
the clock that won't move fast enough,
or perhaps the broken swing set
that creaks and has become dull and unappealing.
Water logged old-news, but I'd like crisp/exciting/
[even though I'm not from Abereen] I'd like to capture
some of your attention.
Drowning in spinal fluid-
I don't want to feel dirty/cheap/
anymore. I'd like to tear my skin
break it and draw blood,
I'll know I belong then.
This may mean nothing
it's just stylised bullshit.
From The Vault To Your Eye Sockets
Comments
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Oh, Needles
You're too talented to breathe.
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"I am
the clock that won't move fast enough,
or perhaps the broken swing set
that creaks and has become dull and unappealing."
your bs is my aspiration!
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Gorgeous but worry-some..=\
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Oh....It hardly feels like you ...this self doubt.
As always the poetry is great (Or as you put it...stylised bullshit.....!)
What are you doing to yourself? I miss the fighting talk.
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