untitled circa 2003the day i saw your face the feeling of capture and the feeling of dispair. this torturing feeling that i love, yet i resentuntitled circa 2003
they say theres a way out of anything thats all very true but i don't want a way out of this. the pleasure of waiting to see your deep hazel eyes the feeling up my spine when you draw near yet the horror of your striking words after you've downed your vice knowing that shes on your mind strikes my heart like the three of swords but yet you're like a substance im addicted every night i come to you to take my worries away your
send me your writingand if time could ever erase that melancholy mist that lingers on our skin wrapping us up tightly leaving no cushion for our fallsend me your writing
we've had our fall long before that quick release that hasty flee to better things
maybe tomorrow i will wake up concentrating on the flickering eyes and one giant flaw i woke up next to day after day
sometimes we look back on those times with lullabies
singing us to sleep gently, soft, and peacefully reminding us why we close our eyes &nbs
best friendi don't want to see your blue eyes alive with opposition or dead with compassion i don't want to share a cloud of alcohol an artificial socialbility. i don't want long car rides blurred scenary beating around the bush and running stop signs i want the clarity of vagueness the understanding of confusion the beauty of the dark i want you to befriend me. again.best friend
the manhow do you do? what do you say to the man? how are you doing today? how do you approach the man? I'm yours. how do you feel towards the man? the moans, the tension, the rush. how do you escape the man? let me out, i'm trapped, i'm scared. how do you tell the man? an august moon shines down upon you. how do you leave the man? twenty-four times the pain before, how do you let the man go? bittersweet. everything is the man. how do you do? just walk away from the man.the man
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I won't be coming back from this.
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Ah, make the most of what we yet may spend,
Before we too into the Dust descend;
Dust into Dust, and under Dust to lie
Sans Wine, sans Song, sans Singer, and--sans End!
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