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Bluelight Crew
- Joined
- Jun 10, 2017
- Messages
- 4,122
We're constantly adrift and lost moving through the cemetary of civilization
and sometimes the panic rises in me like vomit and I'm drowning in a teardrop
There's a painting in a chipped frame of a man sitting slumped outside a barn
he looks like he's going to his own funeral, yet another procrastinated suicide
She always used to tell me that my sentiment would one day destroy me
and how long do I have to keep waiting for that proverbial guillotine to drop?
There's powder on plates on the table, bullet-shaped pills, syringes and Kleenex
my fingers match the small cavities in the paper-maiche-wall behind the couch
Like dimples that has been eroded into shape, acting gutters for my angst
I can't escape the feeling that I'm an organ that would be rejected byt the recipiant
and my hangover taste like ammonia, the teeth feel loose and I'm afraid to sneeze
a debilitating damp terror that I'll spit them out and they'll litter the floor like bloody hail
My skin keeps sliding around on my frame like I'm wearing an ill-fitting sweater
I swallow a blister of sedatives and pain-killers like honeycoat sweets and smile
Pushing through somnolence and wearing her old dress, I pretend I'm Judy Garland
my breath is slowing down for my dispatch, my hands like heavy, dead birds in strings
The extinction of myself might be an event of the past and I'm just stuck re-living it
and all quirks grow into bad habits given time just as the survival instinct becomes a burden
Time is a butcher and the clock grinds and churns, reducing us back into tiny specks of dust
I lose hours and days of time and maybe it's the sleep deprivation, the speed or Rohypnols
Or maybe those small holes in the fabric of reality that strectches us thin while we're asleep
maybe they have decided to show me mercy by devouring me while I'm wide awake, too
and sometimes the panic rises in me like vomit and I'm drowning in a teardrop
There's a painting in a chipped frame of a man sitting slumped outside a barn
he looks like he's going to his own funeral, yet another procrastinated suicide
She always used to tell me that my sentiment would one day destroy me
and how long do I have to keep waiting for that proverbial guillotine to drop?
There's powder on plates on the table, bullet-shaped pills, syringes and Kleenex
my fingers match the small cavities in the paper-maiche-wall behind the couch
Like dimples that has been eroded into shape, acting gutters for my angst
I can't escape the feeling that I'm an organ that would be rejected byt the recipiant
and my hangover taste like ammonia, the teeth feel loose and I'm afraid to sneeze
a debilitating damp terror that I'll spit them out and they'll litter the floor like bloody hail
My skin keeps sliding around on my frame like I'm wearing an ill-fitting sweater
I swallow a blister of sedatives and pain-killers like honeycoat sweets and smile
Pushing through somnolence and wearing her old dress, I pretend I'm Judy Garland
my breath is slowing down for my dispatch, my hands like heavy, dead birds in strings
The extinction of myself might be an event of the past and I'm just stuck re-living it
and all quirks grow into bad habits given time just as the survival instinct becomes a burden
Time is a butcher and the clock grinds and churns, reducing us back into tiny specks of dust
I lose hours and days of time and maybe it's the sleep deprivation, the speed or Rohypnols
Or maybe those small holes in the fabric of reality that strectches us thin while we're asleep
maybe they have decided to show me mercy by devouring me while I'm wide awake, too
