Every day my mind wonders the same way. There are times when I can feel myself falling, Wondering if you will be there to catch me… But you are not. It seems you never are. Funny that, considering all the times I caught you. My arms are so strong, yet tired from all the times you fell, From all the times I stood at the bottom to cushion your landing, Yet you can’t even be bothered to at least try… Not even once.
So here I am wondering, why am I falling? Why are you not at the bottom of this dark and steep fall? Whose arms are strong enough to cushion my landing? The world has gone black. Yet I’m still falling into this hole. And you are still not there.
I have to laugh. Oh, pity the fool who got ****** in to your world! Oh, pity the fool who made sure to be there!
No, don’t pity me DON’T YOU DARE. You don’t deserve to pity me, You don’t deserve to catch me. You don’t deserve to be there.
I plumped down sinking back first into the middle of the cushion. Resting my arms behind my head. Thoughts of spending the rest of my life here crossed my mind. Now drifting off in thought. I watched the sun drift off into the horizon. Peering through half closed curtains. The inside of her eyes. I always wondered what things looked like from here. A beautiful thing, the clouds engulfed by one another. Patiently laying there, feet spread apart. Wider than my shoulders. The fear of drowning never crossed my mind, Sailing so far from I originally docked myself. The closest I've ever came to setting sail before this moment was dangling my feet from the pier. Hanging from the edge of her eyebrows. By far one of the best memories happening before my eyes. I loved how this felt. Surrounded in total comfort. Embraced by nothing except cushion. I sunk deep. My outer face cradled by cushion. Watching the current of clouds ripple across the sky. Snuggling my head deeper into the cushion. Internalizing the thought of spending the rest of my life here. Laying on the cushion of her heart. Viewing the world through her eyes
In '87 there was a band on at the Witchwood called the ****** Surgeons head surgeon was wearing a surgeon's gown wearing a surgeon's mask wearing a surgeon's hair-net delirium in the audience the band played thrashing guitars in front of a psychotic drummer behind the masked, hair-netted front surgeon 2 songs in, off came the hair-net 3 songs in, off came the mask 4 songs in, off came the gown a bare chested surgeon now wearing civilian half nakedness a huge sofa cushion appeared in the audience from out of nowhere into my face my beloved tinted specs flew into the moshing mob the chaos relented for a moment I searched the floor for my pride and joy finding them in multiple smashed, crushed pieces I could not see the band I could hardly see my hand in front of my be-cushioned face I left the show early as everything was blurry how was I to know? how a ****** Surgeons show would go? maybe the name was a giveaway. after a sofa cushion ruined my day.