my feather drips
the constant calligraphy of scripting my life poetically
sometimes
feeling myself descending

wishing to pretend
that
pain is more than the cliche of love
cause if love is pain and pain is life
my tolerance rejects
all aspects
.
.
.
since this shit is all a game
named: Survival
attempting to smooth rough edges
just to earn a buck trying not to endure that
same old paper cut
that bleeds for what seems like
Satin draining you till
your being is weak

grasping forms
gasping from my own throat being slit
saliva slipping
within
the
freshest tidbits and grips of life
living for death
in the
last breath that i take

detoured by
unchanged turning points
and dead ends
that
never seem to finish hitting
the hardest part of
hells brick wall
.
.
.
and to tell you my complete truth
i almost dont want to live
at all
hosting to closed eyes
dreaming
nightmares that stare into darkness
.
.
.
and in this
life doubles as that bucket full of bullshit
surrounded by flies that
hover and make you
wonder if-
self is at fault
passed losing track of destination

walking lost
subsequently turning to
death to help life
seem
more than what it is

crying out in the silence of
madness
as my cardiac arrest goes back to the basics
and i continue to die
never knowing
since having love was obsolete when growing up

(((can you hear me calling you name like I know you
because i need you?)))

just to be able to show you that
turns out
I DONT have this thing called
life
in the bag
.
.
.
and truth is, i never have
and im starting not to even remember
where the fuck i came from
since im occupied by
n o t h i n g
my soul is in my pen, so my
pen cries blood

Copyright 2009