These days drag on while I drag on my finely rolled cigarette of relief But the relief is only a hazy mask, fading with every lash that falls on my cheek My hair is too weak and unkempt, for days spent inside enduring darkness take a toll on one's mentality and physicality
I am a shell of who I used to be Lips stuck together, crooked spine, fingers jammed from carpel tunnel Apathetic eyes grow weary from the vast toxins that reside behind them seeping through like an absorbent napkin and rung out with listlessness
These days drag on and on I hear the same songs and make the same motions I miss the fresh air and the sound of the ocean I almost miss the faint smell of burts bees on your lips--I'm sick with nostalgia and dying for the future, hating the present, wishing these days would drag to an end