Tuesday, December 2, 2008

A Dearth of (my) Senses

I Can't Win

"Walking on the ground you're breaking
Laughing at the life you're wasting"

I'm lacking any comprehension of images to face and lines to read and people to converse with. I'm lacking any restraint to be resilient when it crashes right by my feet and blows up my face. I'm lacking any truth, the greater good always in mind. No, no I just don't have a choice. Utilitarian, never.

I'm lacking any logic. Logic could break your heart, not mine. Just complicated and bleak. Eleven seconds till I know where you are, till I know where I'll be. And through here, I strapped down, elevated by hopeless hopes just to descend in abysmal withdrawal.

I'm lacking any diversions cutting up my mentality. December that I'd win and lose from November thresholds when who I'd been when I entered would never be if I get out. I'm lacking any receptivity. Except when it comes to the red raw thing. In my room, out of control when I'd leave my compressed and impenetrable red raw thing beating steady somewhere. It thumps itself a reception closed to all with an exception.

Honestly, honestly, I'm lacking any composure. Because I'd left it on my bed where I'd lain my limbs and bones the night and nights before.
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ARCHIVE, FUCKERS (for Ace-like purposes)