I’m feeling right as rain on a window pane in a war of attrition,
And I love how the rain beats me into submission,
And I hate how I’m always in need of some reason for a division,
That riddle of forever being cut down and somehow risen up in the middle
Circumnavigate the delusional oceans of my mind,
And I love that place between being dead and alive,
And I hate how I’m there and yet still to arrive,
That riddle of being lost and found by being stuck in the middle
To be a fly on that flower on the wall,
And I love to see how it feels to be left out of it all,
And I hate to be unable to fall,
That riddle of asking “How?” and not “Why?” that comes with being trapped in the middle
I’ve written this part,
For what feels the millionth time,
I can only resign.
The scars upon my hands,
Connecting teeth-marks
The guilt within my heart,
That’s where the sickness starts,
That riddle of being sick and yet unable to survive without lingering in the middle
To be a Superman is so **** superficial,
Superb superstition feels so insuperable,
Juxtaposition in a definition of terms makes the Super seem just simple and little,
That riddle of being everything and nothing that is superimposed in the void of the middle
And I love how I’m here all alone in the middle,
And I hate how I’m here all alone in the middle
Jul 21, 2014
Jul 21, 2014 at 5:04 PM UTC
I’m feeling right as rain on a window pane in a war of attrition,
And I love how the rain beats me into submission,
And I hate how I’m always in need of some reason for a division,
That riddle of forever being cut down and somehow risen up in the middle
Circumnavigate the delusional oceans of my mind,
And I love that place between being dead and alive,
And I hate how I’m there and yet still to arrive,
That riddle of being lost and found by being stuck in the middle
To be a fly on that flower on the wall,
And I love to see how it feels to be left out of it all,
And I hate to be unable to fall,
That riddle of asking “How?” and not “Why?” that comes with being trapped in the middle
I’ve written this part,
For what feels the millionth time,
I can only resign.
The scars upon my hands,
Connecting teeth-marks
The guilt within my heart,
That’s where the sickness starts,
That riddle of being sick and yet unable to survive without lingering in the middle
To be a Superman is so **** superficial,
Superb superstition feels so insuperable,
Juxtaposition in a definition of terms makes the Super seem just simple and little,
That riddle of being everything and nothing that is superimposed in the void of the middle
And I love how I’m here all alone in the middle,
And I hate how I’m here all alone in the middle
