12/6/2005
The voice of knowledge, a practical guide to inner peace, Yet is there such a thing?
Tumbling over and about in my brain with the other bumbling irrationalities that my fertile membrane gives birth to.
She walks in darkness, and he is falling, and all I want is to suck it up.
Hands gentle upon mine as we journey together, but are we together?
The lights of the preconceived adventure gives me hope, yet my faith has fallen.
"I am not enough", still slapped in the face with that reality of inadequacy. Did I spell that right? Inadequacy? Oh well, what the hell does it matter?
Deck the halls and fa la la, and hope that death will find them all, in all their bleeding smiling pretending, and hope that deep wound soon starts mending.
I spent it all out onto the floor and watched it slither to the door, curl away as quick as born, and yet for it I have not mourned.
Lover's bleed and wish to sleep, yet search for it in another's keep, away from the one they hold so dear to set them free from nothing real.
Pushed away and pushed away, conceiving what I did that day, why push away that which you wish, and pretend it all the better fit?
Does this make sense? I hope not so, because I do not wish to know. And yes, the blood repeats itself, but only from my former self.
Cut it deep and smell the scent, and wonder how the hell it went, forgot, away, in some dismay, to sing that lullaby for the day.
I searched the books and found not one, that read the story I had done, the smell of ink and binding thread, almost cool as if it dead.
But there I lay in the veiled chamber bed, perceived in love and getting head. Then spit the fluid of my lust upon the sheets in a heated thrust.
And slept again at last in peace, to wake in morbid saddened grief.
How is it that I come so far, to fall upon this broken jar, and cut my throat with the thick glass, then bleed to death in all this trash?
And I end it here...
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