Metropolis is dust, the smoke of unfaded coffin nails, she's a sensual bonfire littered landscape, the burning lust running in my veins between safety and risk, circumcising the stage where Dylan went electric. ~ "I didn’t belong to anybody then or now.”
Swing-shifting to mercenary mode, but sinking my face value by ordering takeout religion, sharing a cab with Hepatitis C, and all those sky-high boxes and rectangles —existing in one, spending nights with her in another. ~ "Oh, lay me down to sleep upon the trickery of time." ~
these sheets so incredibly warm wicked, yes, i think the window is shattered like everything else in my writing, my pain it is shattered covered, tossed aside i feel better alone there is nothing of value in the present i am the 5 am paranoia kicking in, the work lying there on my desk as time ticks past its due date each line in the wood floor watered by tears there is nothing of value anywhere
i am either entirely paranoid, or presumed to be deaf. the walls in the bathroom are either incredibly paper-thin, or just thick enough. it was either the anxiety, or secrets about me, that weren't meant for me.
Paranoia runs through my veins everywhere I go. I don't feel alone when I'm at home alone; I feel watched and stalked as I roam the streets alone; I constantly feel dread and think of the worst, you can tell me your loyalty to me but I'll question your words. You can reassure me and occupy me, but I'll always come back to how I was- plagued by the paranoia of the unknown.
i compare my bipolar disorder to a roller coaster ride everything is unexpected some days i am very happy while other days i am the opposite i care too much or i don't care at all i am constantly fighting a battle between who i am and who my mind wants me to be it's all in my head, stuck
Footsteps Once more I hear the sound of footsteps following me Once more the fear and warm breath tickling my neck It has always followed me, this sudden panic This feeling to pack everything up and run Run as far as I can see and further Past the mountains and seas and worlds Until the footsteps make no sounds And the breath rustles not a single blade of grass at my feet
Is it my own footsteps? Is it merely the wind? I don't know anymore.