For the last several days I've been weaving in and out of breathing and being alive. Don't ask me why I believe this, but something is slightly off and I can't figure out what--in the same way that I constantly remain ambiguous.
So, what's the best thing I can do during moments like this??? (whispers) write. And like so much of my thoughts and feelings, what I write becomes a Rorschach Test--similar, and slightly different. I'd like for you to project unto me.
4/25/11: Untitled
Swallowing these pills reunites myself--
it's been a while, ol' friend.
The nasty sting of Anger;
loneliness in Sadness,
and always on a high.
Everything is nothing
and suffering is shitting and eating pretzels--
being full and empty.
Piss tastes like loving you girl
bendable, aching, a runic lie.
Several bottles fall off the bed
empty womb sliced open by daddy's
fat, black, cock
wiggly and plastic.
I'm on the edge twirling with the world
taking a stand
wandering along the margins
and lines.
I write
down
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