Feb 2019
And in the prohibition the US government poisoned 10,000 of it's own citizens. Slipping cyanide into beer bottles and arsenic into wine caskets lying on bedside tables. And people still kept going back, despite swollen tongues and heaving lungs. 10,000 people lying in unmarked graves, and people kept drinking their lives away.
And I keep going back, drinking from the same poisoned chalice in the hopes it will **** me quicker. They say the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result. And I don't know if I've ever been so picture perfect, so dictionary definition.
I go back over and over again.
They say you can get addicted to a certain kind of pain.
Pain that licks up your spine and dances in your lower belly.
Pain that forms a crown of thorns, a daisy chain, scrunching your stomach until you can't breathe.
Oh how can something so beautiful, so lying on the grass outside of school under blue skies and wispy clouds, be so painful?
You ******, you ruined daisy chains for me.
And yet I keep going back.
They say, you can get addicted to a certain kind of pain.
Pain, that is screamed, pain that is hollered, pain that is whispered.
Pain, that makes you want to put your entire hand through the window pane, glass be dammed.
And people say pick your poison, and I wonder if it came from the 10,000 who kept going back.
I wonder if they know that I picked mine a long time ago.
You see,
When your world, is black and white, because someone forgot to turn on the light. When all you feel is numb and exhaustion, pain is nice. Pain is a comfort, a red warm blanket that you huddle beneath as you pretend that the storm raging out side is not somehow your fault. But why wouldn't it be, after all everything is your fault.
Pain reminds you that you can feel.
So yeah, you keep going back.
If the only way to remind yourself that you are not a robot, a well-oiled machine is to go back to mustard yellow walls and the pungent smell of sorrow.
Than let's just say you have a knack for picking out the sharpest knife to fall on.
They say you can get addicted to a certain kind of pain.
You say to me never to inhale **** or ecstasy or LSD, you tell me they are poisons people wilfully put in there bodies between gulps of the bottle clenched tight in your fist.
I wonder if you know that sometimes I imagine my neck, between stubby fingers and bursting veins.
I wonder if you know that I picked my poison a long time ago.
And I keep going back, drinking from the same poisoned chalice in the hopes it will **** me quicker. They say the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result. And I don't know if I've ever been so picture perfect, so dictionary definition.
I go back over and over again.
They say you can get addicted to a certain kind of pain.
Pain that licks up your spine and dances in your lower belly.
Pain that forms a crown of thorns, a daisy chain, scrunching your stomach until you can't breathe.
Oh how can something so beautiful, so lying on the grass outside of school under blue skies and wispy clouds, be so painful?
You ******, you ruined daisy chains for me.
And yet I keep going back.
They say, you can get addicted to a certain kind of pain.
Pain, that is screamed, pain that is hollered, pain that is whispered.
Pain, that makes you want to put your entire hand through the window pane, glass be dammed.
And people say pick your poison, and I wonder if it came from the 10,000 who kept going back.
I wonder if they know that I picked mine a long time ago.
You see,
When your world, is black and white, because someone forgot to turn on the light. When all you feel is numb and exhaustion, pain is nice. Pain is a comfort, a red warm blanket that you huddle beneath as you pretend that the storm raging out side is not somehow your fault. But why wouldn't it be, after all everything is your fault.
Pain reminds you that you can feel.
So yeah, you keep going back.
If the only way to remind yourself that you are not a robot, a well-oiled machine is to go back to mustard yellow walls and the pungent smell of sorrow.
Than let's just say you have a knack for picking out the sharpest knife to fall on.
They say you can get addicted to a certain kind of pain.
You say to me never to inhale **** or ecstasy or LSD, you tell me they are poisons people wilfully put in there bodies between gulps of the bottle clenched tight in your fist.
I wonder if you know that sometimes I imagine my neck, between stubby fingers and bursting veins.
I wonder if you know that I picked my poison a long time ago.
