As talent drained from every inch of my mind
I found reading other's work only made me jealous
I started to feel unpopular
Not enough ideas left to create anything at all. Not a single drop of inspiration.
As all of theses emotions and realizations mixed together
I became okay with copying your work.
I can imagine you slaving in the dark
Racking your brain to find the perfect words to finish the last line
Lucky for me I have it all right here, completed and ready to post
Finished and polished and prepackaged with a message I didn't think of but everyone will commend me for.
*I hope you enjoy it.
Not actually plagiarized. Just tired of seeing others plagiarize on here.
I keep looking for a song to define the moment,
But the sound of your name fits every occasion
I put you on my wall today
As soon as I got home
And I smilled at how you were crooked
And I tilted my head to really see you
And that's when the water sloshed out of my ears and I was drowning
Your eyes became bubbles that helped me breathe
When I sucked them in
I became one with the pressure
The fluctuating force that I knew all to well
Spilling from my ears like a cloud too heavy to hold its weight
You drift off the wall and float with me, fragile, yet permanent and meaningful in my mind
Narcolepsy* hard and heavy watch me fall asleep
Lulled to bed in a cunning thread of the tangled web we weave
I dream in pristine colors, windows of my mind anew
No fingerprints or ***** looks or evidence of you
I find comfort in forever wherever it may be
I may have left my home but it will always stay with me
The smell of all the smoke with the sound of all the rain
On constant playback every second deep within my brain
I found that time is all that matters and everything else faded
I spent years and years learning how to forget everything I hated
I've only gotten older and have nothing left to show
Except a ringing alarm clock and blood on my pillow
Narcolepsy** hard and heavy watch me as I sleep
Another pill, another high, another date to keep
If I shall die before I wake, I hope that I'm with you
Then it won't matter where I go, cause you will see me through
I met Sally on the hill with a nickel bag of ******.
She didn't pay me in money.
Instead, information and a little persuasion made the baggie leave my right back pack pocket
“Dollars could never have made sense of it anyway
We throw pennies away opting for the opulence that big bills entail
Retail will never amount to the amount I've blown on blow”
Or so she said behind Louis Vuitton shades shielding eyes half dead
A ****** with a monkey on her back fed by a steady stream of opiates
“I open this line of communication so you can see we lack foundation and stability and yet
We're trying to build a sand castle with all the powder we can possibly get
And if we're forced to forfeit that fortress, we snort more, still trying to forget” and with that she placed her sunglasses on top of her head
I stood back with my back pack and I finally understood
Why drugs will make you richer than working ever could
They bag a gram put it on the scale and tell you what it weighs
But they don't tell you how unnoticeable it is when your life slips away
We sell the dream, we sell the aesthetics
The drugs, the parties, the scene with guest lists
Fun. All a lie.
*I almost fell on my face walking down the hill, staring into those blue eyes over my shoulder all the while.
There's a beautiful gun in my hand.
The nightshift sun gleams off the barrel like a swan on a lake
At home against the humid sweaty dark pressing against everything yet awesomely singular
The clock stopped a long time ago and gunshots took over in place of the ticks and tocks…
(I'm chewing on something soft)
… and I never noticed.
It seemed natural.
Every bullet chambered was just another hour passing
And though it feels like forever I know its been half a day
Blood laces the treads of my shoes
Hugging the rubber and drawing patterns that I'm less aware of than I am of...
(What is this? It's good.)
Everyone I know is sitting in a pile.
No more alive than the gun itself.
Still they talk. Memories are shared and advice is given. I don't care to know if its real.
Everyone talks. It makes sense.
Even the dead.
The ceiling fan noisily labors diligently if not futilely against the unspeakable heat. It's the only sound I can be sure of. The motion helps.
Nothing else is moving except...
...My jaw. Steadily gnashing through…
My tongue. I don't care about the blood at my feet or the fact that its coming from my mouth.
*What worries me is that now everyone is staring at me and I dont have any gun at all
I'm taking my life. to the pawnshop on a dusty summer-fall morning
Because at this point I'm not sure what to use it for anymore
And they'll give me cash for trash
Like a mountain of crushed cans in exchange for a dream money can buy in a clear plastic baggie