Toltecsuperhero
Bluelighter
It's right there... just below the skin where i left it, aching to break through. I've been doing the same thing for so long, I don't remember what before felt like. (I think I used to laugh more easily.) Words meant less than gestures then; starting to feel the cost now.
I just lost my apetite.
No, I don't want to talk about it... if I did, I wouldn't be writing, now would I?
I don't care.
I don't care.
Repeat it enough and maybe...
It's so hard not to feel bitter and empty. So hard to keep the cold out in this chill winter. (Florida was warmer, but I wasn't.)
Warmth always feels like weakness- coursing up my arm into the "vital" bits- wouldn't want to be weak.
No.
Keep going, asshole. One foot in front of the other, horizon never gets closer. It's all the same. Nothing ever gets closer. All the tastes, smells, sights, sounds, and feelings stay at the end of this dull tunnel.
Empty.
It's all hollow.
It's all the same.
Echoes of possibility almost too quiet to hear brush past like I'm not here. Maybe I'm not.
Maybe I'm not strong, not cool- sic, not interesting, not smart, not anything because all the things of this world seem foreign- like some sarcastic Fellini film sans subtitles.
I think I'm the same broken little kid that just wanted to get away from it all... the same disfigured, dying thing that I dream of so often, that I carry around from one danger to another endlessly.
Inevitable.
Give up.
Give up.
Repeat it enough, and maybe...
I'm still huddling under my X-men covers hoping all the bad things go away... but i'm the bad things.
I'm the downed fighter. Down the arm and back up to warmer more important parts and it all falls away.
Pass away to dream a better dream, live a better, or at least more imaginative, lie.
Okay.
Okay.
I just lost my apetite.
No, I don't want to talk about it... if I did, I wouldn't be writing, now would I?
I don't care.
I don't care.
Repeat it enough and maybe...
It's so hard not to feel bitter and empty. So hard to keep the cold out in this chill winter. (Florida was warmer, but I wasn't.)
Warmth always feels like weakness- coursing up my arm into the "vital" bits- wouldn't want to be weak.
No.
Keep going, asshole. One foot in front of the other, horizon never gets closer. It's all the same. Nothing ever gets closer. All the tastes, smells, sights, sounds, and feelings stay at the end of this dull tunnel.
Empty.
It's all hollow.
It's all the same.
Echoes of possibility almost too quiet to hear brush past like I'm not here. Maybe I'm not.
Maybe I'm not strong, not cool- sic, not interesting, not smart, not anything because all the things of this world seem foreign- like some sarcastic Fellini film sans subtitles.
I think I'm the same broken little kid that just wanted to get away from it all... the same disfigured, dying thing that I dream of so often, that I carry around from one danger to another endlessly.
Inevitable.
Give up.
Give up.
Repeat it enough, and maybe...
I'm still huddling under my X-men covers hoping all the bad things go away... but i'm the bad things.
I'm the downed fighter. Down the arm and back up to warmer more important parts and it all falls away.
Pass away to dream a better dream, live a better, or at least more imaginative, lie.
Okay.
Okay.
