(0244) split-second choreography
i had a conversation with a ghost next to my bed. he told me not to worry. "things will be okay," he said. i popped a pill and let it work its way throughout my heavy head. i fell asleep and had a dream that nothing ever turned to sand or bled.
i wake up every morning not feeling what i felt the night before. you'd think that that'd be nice, but there are certain things you can't ignore. if i had enough finances, i'd like to believe i'd feed the poor. but when the hunger strike has ended, would you think that less is more?
there's silence in the gutter, but you can't hear it on the street. there's something in my heart, but there is nothing up my sleeve. i do the dishes and my laundry, but i can't concentrate and read. we have a hopeful destination, but we can't seem to proceed.
and the interesting part to me is not something i could write. i wish i could've slept right there when i looked into those eyes, but it's nothing that you haven't seen. it's nothing made of light. it's just something that has permanently been etched into my mind.
the doctor comes and goes, but most of the time, he's diagnosing illnesses. he checks out of his office; goes home to his wife and kids. a cell phone and a pager - barely has the time to live. but me, i'm stuck at home with wandering thoughts and sinking crutches.
i still cannot believe that i survived underneath all of that snow. there was someone in the attic. this is something that's undeniable. when the train never arrived, i didn't know exactly what to do or where to go. i just knew that i would find my way back if i followed in the direction of my shadows.
so guilt becomes a commodity and a by-product of fear. it's really not surprising then that the rationality of my thoughts slowly disappeared. so i had to fix the leaking holes with my own fucked up, mangled hands. i threw a penny in the water and it never reappeared.
and in the depth perception wraparound, i was haunted by my string theory, romanticized and empty past. a conversational industry built on nothing that's really actually meant to last. i had my summer and winters mixed up in a twisted and sarcastic, fleeting track. we'll never be there again. we'll never be on the other side of this glass. what was once considered an accident will now always be considered fate. if i could break the ice with a melody, i could melt it with a similar tune. if only i had the nerve to create, and i could do it sometime soon.
honesty was never shallow, and metaphors will never go out of fashion. breathe and hold this in until i've been made aware of my insatiable passion. what right have you to take this away?
"my love becomes a mange dyeing autumn in its leaves when it broke me in the branch where my antlers come to feed... and i swam a hundred days in the bosom of this filth. carry on this drought as i tighten my belt..."
i wake up every morning not feeling what i felt the night before. you'd think that that'd be nice, but there are certain things you can't ignore. if i had enough finances, i'd like to believe i'd feed the poor. but when the hunger strike has ended, would you think that less is more?
there's silence in the gutter, but you can't hear it on the street. there's something in my heart, but there is nothing up my sleeve. i do the dishes and my laundry, but i can't concentrate and read. we have a hopeful destination, but we can't seem to proceed.
and the interesting part to me is not something i could write. i wish i could've slept right there when i looked into those eyes, but it's nothing that you haven't seen. it's nothing made of light. it's just something that has permanently been etched into my mind.
the doctor comes and goes, but most of the time, he's diagnosing illnesses. he checks out of his office; goes home to his wife and kids. a cell phone and a pager - barely has the time to live. but me, i'm stuck at home with wandering thoughts and sinking crutches.
i still cannot believe that i survived underneath all of that snow. there was someone in the attic. this is something that's undeniable. when the train never arrived, i didn't know exactly what to do or where to go. i just knew that i would find my way back if i followed in the direction of my shadows.
so guilt becomes a commodity and a by-product of fear. it's really not surprising then that the rationality of my thoughts slowly disappeared. so i had to fix the leaking holes with my own fucked up, mangled hands. i threw a penny in the water and it never reappeared.
and in the depth perception wraparound, i was haunted by my string theory, romanticized and empty past. a conversational industry built on nothing that's really actually meant to last. i had my summer and winters mixed up in a twisted and sarcastic, fleeting track. we'll never be there again. we'll never be on the other side of this glass. what was once considered an accident will now always be considered fate. if i could break the ice with a melody, i could melt it with a similar tune. if only i had the nerve to create, and i could do it sometime soon.
honesty was never shallow, and metaphors will never go out of fashion. breathe and hold this in until i've been made aware of my insatiable passion. what right have you to take this away?
"my love becomes a mange dyeing autumn in its leaves when it broke me in the branch where my antlers come to feed... and i swam a hundred days in the bosom of this filth. carry on this drought as i tighten my belt..."
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