And just going.
Still awake with the thought I could leave this instant
And perfect my way of living by starting over again.
But I leave things unfinished
I am “half done” with letters and books
And I would rather walk the equivalent of walking “there”
By walking back where I started.
Craving and not working on change
I’m sentenced to a life titled “to be unfinished”
I’m too poor for therapy
But that’s ok because I can do math,and cheat at cards again.
I’ve done good with myself to be honest-ish.
Woodpeckers are beautiful birds but what can one expect.
Woodpeckers are so beautiful actually
Clot my veins because of those fucking birds
Rip my fingernails because holy shit.
I’m too poor for therapy.
Transcending further into the idea
That everything in colour is ordinary
Kind of gives one a different shade of sadness to get used to.
I don’t know what it is
Lately I’ve felt the heavy sort of empty.
I feel as though my thoughts pull me down from sleep,
Pinned down without any means to stand.
I’m just trying to find the world through some sort of fulfillment
But I don’t even know what it looks like.
I’m sorry for the stars and what they make me think of.
At fifteen one shouldn’t even be thinking of this
But for once how great would it be to look at colours with colours
Be less Grey.
I am sorry for everything that I say, and I wonder
That if I were to get to know you better would it stick
Onto you as it stuck into me?
It wouldn’t be close to something bacterial
So forget antiseptics as a solution.
Frowns and cold hands are problematic
This wish to ask the world for an apology is a contagious nerve killer.