vanitystrain

So I have the entire capacity of my life to think upon and try to logic with everything that happens and all of the actions I take. Un-flawless and imaginarily sensible. To continue on resorting to the old and being scarce of the new. I can't seem to find the ground and am only resting on a broken chair. I have no brain but my eyes work. My blood is contaminated and there is no filter for the cure. Eating and drinking and fucking and wincing. Truth be told, I was never good, and never great. I can costume love and have no instinct on what it is. It lost me years ago, and now it's all one shared spectrum of color. The ones I care for don't exist. The ones that cared for me have flown south. It was too cold for them. Apology is just an action of false or unfelt words. There is nothing that can be done, that doesn't lack the motivation. It's easier to be easy. And easy to be complicated. Basically plain, you deserve the world and it's certainty something of which I refuse to give for circumstances I won't be able to understand. There is this word, vomit, that consistently comes over me, and then it's irreplaceable. Nothing was said that wasn't meant, but only a cloth over broken glass. The problem was never fixed and only guarded. It's this bitter sweet, more bitter, less sweet aroma that I smell. I am weak for the drug. And that is what it's become. Drink your milk baby, for your bones are much stronger than mine. I've been drinking passed the expiration date but I can't stop until it's finished. I have lost. You have loved. Absence, makes me fucked.