sickness and stars
i. lines
ii. fucking things up, again
iii. stars
iv. interlude 1
v. this too shall pass
vi. sometime
vii. my
viii. interlude 2
ix. secrets
x. love is, love is, love is(n’t)
lines
where’s the line between here or there?
dreams or dares
i’m scared.
i mean, is there a line?
between good and evil or old and new
between something borrowed and something screwed.
it makes fucking sense shit
but all i search is mountain pits.
dips and slides and rips and rides
ocean deep and mountainsides
i mean, really? you used mountain twice
poetic device.
poetic license? you’ll be so lucky
i mean really quit with this fucking
what? i didn’t ask for a guide to hide and confide in
my secrets.
secret for a reason
though what reason i don’t know?
i mean, if it snows at least everything will look nice for a day
yeah just don’t piss in it.
piss down the drain
i mean it’s futile,
everything, futile and empty and effervescent and i don’t know what else.
shelf rhymes with elf rhymes with self
rhymes with orange.
no it doesn’t.
well it should.
fucking things up, again
why did we make paper white?
who decided that was the colour on which we should write?
purity. isn’t that what white means
strangled dreams hidden behind screens on green
pathways. pathways out of here, somewhere there, just not here.
i mean, surely there is the definition of not here, but alright.
fitting everything in is hard, isn’t it?
fitting every feeling in your soul and every thought in your mind
when even a single one is too big.
asphalt. nice word to say, asphalt. takes up another slot in the brain
complicates. articulates. regulates.
i mean a word is just a word if its heard herd bird curd
word.
just a word.
but somehow more than that?
is it the soul that makes it more?
maybe it’s the devil.
maybe it’s not more at all and it’s just humanity
fucking things up, again.