Apr 2016
I've been sitting here so long i cant tell the difference between ribcages and coffee tables.
And the blood vessels in my eyes are starting to look like my family tree.
Made friends with my shadow that only comes out in the night time and with the dusty books I'll never read because I can't invest myself in things that have a certain end.
I can't let things end because that means the ones who got away have won. And even my shadow has now left me too. My hands turn calloused trying to hold on to ink cartridge people who have run out of time.
Our hands intertwine as if we were a clock, always on the same hour but never on the same page.
Of these books I can never read.
I swallow everything including my pride.
How long have you been afraid?
And why can you read palms of strangers you can't let go but you can't read those ******* books in your closet?
And why can you clean out your junk drawer but you can't wake up with clear conscious?
Why are you blowing your whistle when your lovers have already died?
Your childhood isn't slipping away stop clenching your fists.
Where does lucid dreaming really take you when you can't see straight?
Why won't you stop shaking?
You're afraid that these stories will rewrite your own because you could never get it right the first time around.
If they could get it right your skin wouldn't be stained with regret and emotion
Who's scratching at the walls?
Who's crawling in the attic?
Who's scratching at the surface of this panic?
Who the **** is knocking on your front door and why can't you let anyone in even when you send them an invitation?
Step right up
Guess my fate
Why does it even matter what those books have to say?
And why could I never give myself a break?
Hiding under my covers when my parents turned into earthquakes
Those stories don't matter
The only one that does
Was Christmas Day 2010
When everyone around me finally gave up.
And the blood vessels in my eyes are starting to look like my family tree.
Made friends with my shadow that only comes out in the night time and with the dusty books I'll never read because I can't invest myself in things that have a certain end.
I can't let things end because that means the ones who got away have won. And even my shadow has now left me too. My hands turn calloused trying to hold on to ink cartridge people who have run out of time.
Our hands intertwine as if we were a clock, always on the same hour but never on the same page.
Of these books I can never read.
I swallow everything including my pride.
How long have you been afraid?
And why can you read palms of strangers you can't let go but you can't read those ******* books in your closet?
And why can you clean out your junk drawer but you can't wake up with clear conscious?
Why are you blowing your whistle when your lovers have already died?
Your childhood isn't slipping away stop clenching your fists.
Where does lucid dreaming really take you when you can't see straight?
Why won't you stop shaking?
You're afraid that these stories will rewrite your own because you could never get it right the first time around.
If they could get it right your skin wouldn't be stained with regret and emotion
Who's scratching at the walls?
Who's crawling in the attic?
Who's scratching at the surface of this panic?
Who the **** is knocking on your front door and why can't you let anyone in even when you send them an invitation?
Step right up
Guess my fate
Why does it even matter what those books have to say?
And why could I never give myself a break?
Hiding under my covers when my parents turned into earthquakes
Those stories don't matter
The only one that does
Was Christmas Day 2010
When everyone around me finally gave up.
