In the broken moment of this non-felt non-reality
I reach to my telepathic and maniac method.
I only want to channel the hot, the telling. I only
want to get the words that MOVE me and only me
because I am everything that's fucked about this place.
This whole place.
I can dream in my darkside and talk with
that other voice. To them, anyway.
I can light up whatever thing that pleases me
and still be human.
I can give a fuck.
But that may be my problem.
I wear "slippers" in the house but they're shoes.
I've lost my clothes amongst my other clothes
because there's so much black.
I test fear when I linger in the mirror.
But the doorbell works. As of today.
Memories are coming and going.
If it were night, I'd be in the wrong.
But I'm only sitting in shadows.
I'm only keeping warm between the blanket
and the cold earth.
I'm not warm.
I let my blood veins sprout with leaves as if
the circling system were a vine.
I let my lymph... flower.
This is all an idea; that's the painful part.
Idea's that stay idea's are curses.
A halo is a reversed crown.
And people become assholes because they're addicted to
HUMANITY.
