that there are too many lives I'm not living.
So much air that I can't get into my lungs.
There's not enough space, not enough time,
to live without the abandonment of guilt.
We believe in photographs and words.
We believe that if we keep going up we'll
find the promises we tried to keep,
everything will be made up for in the end.
If there is an end.
End. It sounds as it's said.
The fire to extinguish all hopes.
And the numbness, the comfort of lazy apathy.
Like a summer blanket,
sprawled across the bed of all the judgements we've received.
And people with their
judgement glue,
without fail soaking us in it,
to justify their own glue-soaked bodies.
Attached to the lifestyle of living a lie.
Only tell the truth when you need to.
Only caress the solitary ways of my past
and the abundant togetherness of my present.
What have I turned into?
I'm constantly turning, constantly taking the consequence in stride.
The room is spinning, aching with the thought of emptiness.
A powerful, candlelight death, or end.
Time no longer works with me, and I've been down this small alley before.
The alley of ever present hope and blatant disappointment.
And walking down it, skimming the crushed possibilities with my hand,
it doesn't feel familiar or foreign, or even real.
Just condescending.
I pay in not forgetting, in not getting attached, in vain smiles.
(Let's see how long I can fake it to my self.)
But, see, everything's perfectly normal.
All of these words, all of these preconceived meanings.
They mean nothing, yet they are part of my everything.
(I have a lot to say, but only a lot of the most nothing that I can conjure up)
