I hop on and off, just like my mood does. It's quite empty in sound, only the hissing of the wheels is present in my ears. I observe the flash of lights count them one by one. Making me realise that's not all I count. Life has been traced from number to number. But it's the countdown for a vacation, paradise, freedom with no walls. I wish the count would end because, my dear friend, my wish is to die even if I don't know why.
I hate the empty feeling I sometimes get when I hear your voice. I see you waiting for an answer that I don't want to give. I get angry at myself and then at you. How could you let me leave without saying goodbye. How could you let yourself let me be in this mood. Why won't you insist on me staying and talking to you. Will you please tell me to stop and love you. I need you to tell me what to do for otherwise I'm just going to be cruel. I don't want you to act like it doesn't bother you. For I see it does and I know it's because it's not normal to be like this. So hopeless, angry and empty
Hate has the same eyes as yours, brown and tender. They carry the same look as if I was everything wrong with the world. Hate has the same movement as you, slow and swinging from side to side. Careless and judged by everyone who lays eyes on you. Hate feels the same as you, burning feeling of anger but with passion and care deep beneath the skin. Hate has the same hair as you, short and greasy, which sticks to my hands as I brush through the brown locks. Hate looks like you, but I don't mind it. Because I admit I love looking at you.
Undone sentences that die between lips. Soft skinned cherry lips bitten by teeth. Searching for sweet and sour company. Pleased by pain and haunted by time. Ticking clock in the night recalling sunshine landing on hips of gold. Melting beauty upon the sheets. Mirror, mirror on the wall where's the perfect lips of them all?
Smoke from your mouth form captivating clouds accompanied by light sentenced love promises. Gruesome coughs of heart broken bones. I wish it could be you and me sitting in a tree. Perhaps a peach branch can hold us up. And you can take a bite of my fresh fruit that I kept just for you.
I'm tired. Not that tired which makes you stay in bed. But the one that makes you wish you did. I think about life and the value it has. It can be worth more than diamonds and gold. Or it can be worth less than coal. I chose the second option because I'm tired. But if I rest my life, put it on hold and let myself breath, I could make life more valuable. Yet, I wish I was in bed and sometimes I'm guilty of wishing I was dead.