Stuck on the actual prime meridian where gambling and grown up shenanigans are viewed all ***** hurting society, though I could legally go to the drain on my street and drop a thousand twenty pees in it nae bother our equivalent bet as high rollers we are surely not
I miss you Vegas with your daft anti-reality cushions, the strip with no history or heritage necessarily but with goofy drunken dreams brimming alive
and I know vice, bad, horror, addiction yadda yadda
Having trouble adjusting Constant loneliness Experienced it before Never in excess A dream the closest I get to someone Search for a face but still see none Easy making reasons for why I am alone Much harder ignoring truth already known It pushes my ribcage so I can't breathe right Gladly suffocate to keep it out of sight It comes into peripheral without my permission Against eye sockets allegations beyond admission True stories block from my view just in time Deciding to turn and climb Is that urgent buzzing I hear in my ear? With shake of my head I make doubts disappear They fall hard They land in my heart Can no longer deny we are from now on apart
Like every *** has a limit So does every existing heart As to the weight of emotions It can carelessly contain. So let not the *** overflow Or the heart over bloats. Do often share sums of it With the hearts that lack it Or you’ll fail to handle The hurdles God throws.
I circle around the halo That stirs what lies below. Spinning now Only excess materialises in belief form. What is it about the chimera you construct For those that don’t exist? Gasping and grasping on Slivers from a murdered past You insist on perfecting gems in souls Where there are none. Let it rest my friend … or not For the fury of Zenobia Is still lighting What remains of your life And mine.
there's a letter I wrote you with no address in a box beneath my bed and this isn't a metaphor for the time I spent waiting for you there's scattered words in my head playing like a broken record a collage of tired clichés holding just enough truth to echo the memories of you there's nails on my fingers bitten to the brim for every time your name's been in my mouth and I've tried to wash it down but something about the wiring in my brain has fooled me into believing my excess of love will make up for your lack there of
fat until I lost some weight now people fear I’ll waste away too quiet ‘til I speak my mind now they’re all ******, wish I would die wear too much black wear pink one day now everyone assumes I’m gay work out an hour, now I’m crazy I take a break now i’m too lazy the truths I tell become a lie all people do is criticize too meek too weak an *** too crass It doesn’t change until I die nobody will be satisfied
can't please everybody... or, anybody, in my case. But f**k 'em
do you lie in that bed? the rest a waste of the metal springs forged by factory workers pouring in their unpaid overtime to meticulously shape the steel into just the right comforting bounce a waste of the soft cotton cover picked by (slave-descended) hands white fluff still echoing centuries of black oppression spun on foreign looms shipped back across the seas dyed, woven, stretched taut into just the right soothing texture a waste of the foam stuffing made from... whatever goes into foaminess... how many hours wasted? daily weekly
What percentage of the time
do you write with that ballpoint pen? the rest a waste of the clear plastic casing melded from petroleum by corporations extracting black gold in exchange for greenhouse gases a waste of the tiny perfect sphere rolling smoothly along tungsten carbide surface exquisitely crafted for maximum efficiency by man's finest machines factories churning out thousands by the hour a waste of the bright blue ink the mysterious mixture of dyes and pigments and oils and surfactants spilling onto the page recording your delicate thoughts in desperate existential hope they won't be as oft ignored as that device from which they pour forth how many hours wasted? monthly yearly
What percentage of the time
do you sit in that reclining chair? do you walk in those polished dress shoes? do you eat with that bent spoon? do you style your hair with that fine-toothed comb? do you turn the pages of your favorite book? do you see by lamp's light in the guest bedroom?
how many hours sitting unused, wasted? in a life
Ever thought about how much of the time the things we so desperately "need" sit around unused, unneeded? What a waste of resources and the time spent to craft them! What excess!!