What was it that he drew? I can see it unclearly in my head; but all I see are lines, words and a star. Was it a map? I can see it on the bottom of a yellow lined piece of paper. Above the drawing was a poem he wrote for his wife. That's what he did. He wrote poems for his wife, and the rest of his life. Some days I panic and think i can't remember his face. But I could never forget his face. my favorite image is of him slumped in his chair, mouth open slightly fighting to breathe, he always fought to breathe ever since I was little, before his problems. Anyways he is watching the news lifeless in his chair or concentrated I should say, not lifeless that is what he is now. And suddenly his whole body moves, the throws his head back and his feet go up into the air and he yells at the tv. Oh hell. Shit! and he calms down and holds his body as before, mouth slightly open fighting to breathe. I have the pictures to remember his face. There is one where I am alseep and he is lying next to me watching. people have a habbit to do that and I don't understand it. Every body sleeps but they pick me to watch.
I wonder if the map could be decifered. If I could find logic to it and go stand where the star was pklaced and if I would find him there. If I would feel the comfort of knowing I found him. I'm scared that I will never find him. Even when I too am dead.
This morning I wonder if he exisits, or if i do. He wanted me to go home. But I can't or I am home. He won't be there why, because he hasn't been.2 years now and it still hits me like a bus. every time. I wish I could find that poem.
I wonder if the map could be decifered. If I could find logic to it and go stand where the star was pklaced and if I would find him there. If I would feel the comfort of knowing I found him. I'm scared that I will never find him. Even when I too am dead.
This morning I wonder if he exisits, or if i do. He wanted me to go home. But I can't or I am home. He won't be there why, because he hasn't been.2 years now and it still hits me like a bus. every time. I wish I could find that poem.
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Reality is pure evil. I am totally aganist it. And growing up, fuck that shit. It's boring, and insofar I can't see a point other than to fit in with those around me or to be taken more seriously or something. Lame. I'm ok. I'm betta. I'm a killa.
And I HAAATE tweakers!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Ihatejuice is pretty damn funny. So here is a funny for you.
Yeah mang, I can play tha gueetar!!