I feel held back
like every day without love is served just a smidge too dry
when I'm already in a desert
full of broken glass
and furious sun.
Like I've got a thousand cigs
and not a god damn match.
I feel like I'm in quicksand.
Each passing minute
is just another boot on my head
pushing me down
down
down
into that thick suffocation and blackness.
Gleefully reminding me of what I deserve.
Maybe they're right
maybe I am too god damned anti-social
maybe I am too picky.
But shouldn't we take "uncompromising" as a compliment sometimes?
Another scar
Another muscle creak
Another knotch on my belt
passed and signifying nothing.
Makes me wonder how my enemies are doing.
Did all this living well blot out their indiscretions?
Is my revenge complete?
This isn't living well...
this isn't living.
Every day without...
is a slow waltze into death
wake- suffer- dream-
Peace is only in the phantasms of my nightly diversions.
Death's cousin, sleep.
Then the passing confusion of being ripped from its soothing womb
and we are left to suffer another freezing, lonely lifetime without
her.
She.
The only light on in the room.
The only passing fancey that stuck
like an obnoxious pop-tune
like a fork in my heart.
I can't wash her off.
I can't wish her away.
And why would I want to anyway?
Another day without awaits me,
love.
Try to miss me while I'm out.
