There's a clever little box I go into. Easily, and effortlessly, playing the part of the beautiful gypsy. Odd that the act had impact. Days like today make me feel like the liquor I'm pouring down my soul is going to reveal something new, others make me feel like they're destroying the base that all my lies are built on. Either way, something new is emerging. Am I at the edge of hope or hopelessness? My ass is sure starting to hurt from this fence post lodged in it. You see, that's what's stuck up my tight ass. It's not just a stick, it's an entire fucking fence post.
My time has been spent thinking of people with smiles like cured meat, half-diminished, half-aborted, but altogether bland in their expressiveness. It's drugs, it's alcohol, it's the idea that you can never really know anybody. The sunny politics of the left-leaners and God coddlers are raining outside, and in this little apartment on the street I'm deconstructing. I'm exercising a practiced exhibitionism. Am I becoming the naked neighbor? Sure, why not? It's fucking hot in here.
I dreamt last night that all my ex-girlfriends were getting married. All of them, at once, in different parts of the city. I never really knew if I was chasing them, or running away from them. But I was so tired, so heartbroken, so fucked up me when I woke up. It was like one of those dreams where you're falling, you can't help but fall, and you wake up before you hit bottom. I was relieved not to wake up alone. It was always drilled into my head that I'd marry young and have lots of heathens. What complete shit. I've killed or neglected every pet I've ever owned. Still, I have this idea that I'm going to die young. Turning 24 makes me feel rushed, but in this half-assed act of rushing, I'm running the direction I want to go. I'm rushing back towards myself, the introvert. Funny how when you buck destiny you become something altogether new. It's in this capacity that I've escaped my parents, their will, their designs. I'm almost free, I need to leave the city. Why does the grass always look greener on the other side?
I don't need skin like I need scars.
My time has been spent thinking of people with smiles like cured meat, half-diminished, half-aborted, but altogether bland in their expressiveness. It's drugs, it's alcohol, it's the idea that you can never really know anybody. The sunny politics of the left-leaners and God coddlers are raining outside, and in this little apartment on the street I'm deconstructing. I'm exercising a practiced exhibitionism. Am I becoming the naked neighbor? Sure, why not? It's fucking hot in here.
I dreamt last night that all my ex-girlfriends were getting married. All of them, at once, in different parts of the city. I never really knew if I was chasing them, or running away from them. But I was so tired, so heartbroken, so fucked up me when I woke up. It was like one of those dreams where you're falling, you can't help but fall, and you wake up before you hit bottom. I was relieved not to wake up alone. It was always drilled into my head that I'd marry young and have lots of heathens. What complete shit. I've killed or neglected every pet I've ever owned. Still, I have this idea that I'm going to die young. Turning 24 makes me feel rushed, but in this half-assed act of rushing, I'm running the direction I want to go. I'm rushing back towards myself, the introvert. Funny how when you buck destiny you become something altogether new. It's in this capacity that I've escaped my parents, their will, their designs. I'm almost free, I need to leave the city. Why does the grass always look greener on the other side?
I don't need skin like I need scars.
you write so well.