Drinkin' lover's spit

I tell myself not to be so hard on myself. Guilt was never a good shade for me. But I can't help but blame myself for all the things spinning in my head. I have dug my own grave, and I am certain of it. My fear of silence has provoked a persecution for speech. I have grown not bold, but cowardly, looking inward for the sanctity of some deeper meaning. Nothing is what it's supposed to be.

I was too eager. Too eager to please. Too eager to gain. Too eager to have. To speak. Let me speak. But again, the grave is warmer than I thought it could be. Tell me, should I spin a ladder out of the fine silk of tales I tell, or strengthen the noose? My, oh my, my tongue has traveled more than my feet.

And the snow outside reminds me of some purification rite, something I can't complete. But I will lay under the lamplight and let it wash over me, cover me. Perhaps my manifesto will come to life then, but should I speak it, I would damn it. The shapes on the streets grow old and morph into welcoming embraces. If only, if only.

Too eager. What do I have to prove? A broken tooth and a nailed eye, one by one the senses dry and I will lie lie lie. Under lamplight. In false embraces of cold discontent. I have created this, and only I can live by it. Destroy me first, but let the dream live out it's purpose, framed so neatly in the pinpoints of broken snowstars. Frozen tears of the people I have loved and who have gone away,

please don't be ashamed.



xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx


I have a lot of thinking to do. Purge. Let go. Live.
I am tempted to open the windows and scream, but everything silences me.
I will never take your promises. Anyone's for that matter.
You have lost the right to examine my life.


Why the fuck am I crying.