mephisto_so7
Bluelighter
- Joined
- Mar 4, 2001
- Messages
- 20
This brain feels like a clogged drain
Drops of thought trickle from the faucet
However, they struggle to flow free
Blocked by the mass of what
Built up over time and for awhile
Refused to let anything pass through
The once hollow channel of communication
Desperately trying to sort memories,
I stride with false confidence
Down silent, barren hallways
Tumbling down stairs to a place
Void in all hints of home.
A whir of warning wind
Whistles against glass, and all the while
Images fixate themselves behind my eyes
Where I cannot see them, however,
I know they show me from the second
I set foot into my own autopsy.
I've never felt the thick, cold breath
Of tension like this before as
I fake my way through your attempt
At a warm embrace that means less than nothing.
I remember being in a similar place with you
Some months back, patiently waiting
For the paint to dry, so I could swing open
The door into the next room of my exsistence
To begin tearing down the wall coverings
Left behind and bringing a lost life back.
I wished to slam the others in your face,
However in my haste it appears I left one open
And if I could find it, I assure you
I would close it, as I'm tired of hearing you
Carelessly saunter into my glass-floored room,
So fragile that even your featherweighted steps
Will cause it all to shatter.
We sit for a brief moment and suffer through
Ackward bits of silence, the entire time,
Staring blankly at the walls knowing inside
That the paint has dried and now
It's starting to chip away.
[This message has been edited by mephisto_so7 (edited 05 March 2001).]
Drops of thought trickle from the faucet
However, they struggle to flow free
Blocked by the mass of what
Built up over time and for awhile
Refused to let anything pass through
The once hollow channel of communication
Desperately trying to sort memories,
I stride with false confidence
Down silent, barren hallways
Tumbling down stairs to a place
Void in all hints of home.
A whir of warning wind
Whistles against glass, and all the while
Images fixate themselves behind my eyes
Where I cannot see them, however,
I know they show me from the second
I set foot into my own autopsy.
I've never felt the thick, cold breath
Of tension like this before as
I fake my way through your attempt
At a warm embrace that means less than nothing.
I remember being in a similar place with you
Some months back, patiently waiting
For the paint to dry, so I could swing open
The door into the next room of my exsistence
To begin tearing down the wall coverings
Left behind and bringing a lost life back.
I wished to slam the others in your face,
However in my haste it appears I left one open
And if I could find it, I assure you
I would close it, as I'm tired of hearing you
Carelessly saunter into my glass-floored room,
So fragile that even your featherweighted steps
Will cause it all to shatter.
We sit for a brief moment and suffer through
Ackward bits of silence, the entire time,
Staring blankly at the walls knowing inside
That the paint has dried and now
It's starting to chip away.
[This message has been edited by mephisto_so7 (edited 05 March 2001).]
