Just prose of brutal honesty I do drugs I write but nothing ever satisfies underneath the bones in my chest lies a gaping hole Im not sad, im not scared but empty of almost everything something missing can't find it can't fill it spent countless hours tryin' to **** it why cant I be satisfied? Nothing can cure my loneliness not people nor time I just cant be satisfied.
Admission Several half songs later I stay at the type-writer: tapping I am looking for structure, flexibility, a stimulating blend of images To rattle my listeners.
Too bad I come up empty
It's a shame I always crack under the pressure of fake glass incompletion makes a home in me and I can't come back to health until the books are written, the songs are sung, and my creations are raised effectively
But they would still act the same as a **** stain on haute couture.. Why pass it off as anything more?
I accept my role to be colorless, insignificant, and small an ant can only be so tall It is when we admit our futility that we become a human, luminous
There we were, slowly kissing, hands finding their old familiar places. Your mind is as quick as a whip, and has the sting of one too. Your words slide off your silver tongue and into my fresh water river. I pause and take a break only to be left on the edge of the bed crying into my water cup, with you there, back turned- you're cold. You're cold and prideful, didn't I know this? Didnt I know this before climbing back into bed with you, you sly snake devil with blue eyes. You have left me with a hoarse throat, a battered heart, and a dry empty river bed. One day I will flourish again.
It's 1:43 a.m. on a Monday, a week ago at this time exactly I was in your arms. I understand. A love like no other, destined to end, an elixir we cheered to the moon with seeps down our smoke burned throats; my life forever changed from that night on. A burden most heavy lay upon my chest at night, like a dog to it's bed, it lays there throwing its exhaustion of self-hatred and loneliness in my face. The thought most rejected and welcomed, a bottle rocket in the night sky, you are the feeling of picking the right answer. You are the feeling of drawing the short stick. Your words bouncing around in my head like noisy upstairs neighbors unwilling to settle down, causing this emotional insomnia. So I'll pour a drink to have a dream, but I know ill see you there.
My body misses its keeper. My skin misses the grooves of your fingertips. You did exactly what you needed to, your job here is done- on to the next person who needs you, maybe you'll find you need them too, and that scares me half to death. When I'm 50 I'll go through these pages and see how many of them are filled with words of you, and maybe I'll pick up the phone, and dial your number, and maybe then that'll be our time; but till then I'm sleeping in a bed alone, with my love away on another planet in another universe trying to find his own. I crave the day I wake up and don't compare the beauty of a new day to the color of your eyes, or the feeling of running my fingers through the deep August grass to them tangled in your hair. I will try to not associate the sight of crushed beer cans, the smell of burnt firewood, the birds morning songs to all the drunken nights turned mornings when we crawled from our tents and craved coffee with our cigarettes. Pass the cream, wont ya sugar?
Today has been grey and I've spent most of my time asleep. I lack the ability to feel something slightly; this causes discomfort and pain- yes but, this means I have felt every sunset, every time your fingertips brushed my skin I have felt it. I have felt your body rise up and down as you pulled the pillow to cover your head, I have felt you laugh, I have felt your fingers create bubbles in the soapy water that is my skin. I have felt you pull my hair in passion, I have felt you raise your voice in rage, I have felt your heavy heart and I have felt your loose-fitting tight-knit love that covers me. There are days my imperfections leave streak marks on the mirror and a mess in the kitchen, but then there are the days my imperfections make you laugh and stare, because I am my imperfections and you love me.
You leaned me back as we danced at 2am in my kitchen. You held your head back, as my eyes held yours, and my hands held you. This medicine keeps me calm and breathing easy. The lighter and the glass pipe on my windowsill make me enjoy the freezing mornings, and you darling make music notes run through my veins, and they make me shake.
We drove up through the fog on Jackson Mountain, the music carried the silence with a melodic tune that made it almost seem sweet; it was quiet and loud at the same time. "You want a cigarette?" he asks, interrupting the flow of thought through my stormy mind. I silently take the cigarette from him and put it in my mouth, the cigarette filter touching my lips when I wish it were him instead. I pull out my lighter, a blue and yellow flame assistant making my lungs black. He could never really read my handwriting, and he could never really make up his mind. He never read my journals and he hardly ever touched my face. He slept till 4 in the afternoon and threw the pillows over his head if he was disturbed. He hasn't traveled and he doesn't like tattoos. Him. That sounded so sweet just hours before now ****** my tongue to bleed. my love has turned to resentment and everything he does now has lost its glow, the wrinkles in the corners of his eyes don't shout laughter anymore, his curly hair is just a mess now, and his eyes once a beautiful sky blue are just a dusty old ball kicked around in bare feet... But still here I am with you driving through the fog on Jackson Mountain.
You make my head feel like I've been pounding it against a concrete wall, how many hands do I need to count the number of people I share you with? You make my hands shake, you make my heart race like a train, you're the conductor and we're derailing from the tracks as we speak.