Untitled #47

"if you can keep the hounds at bay
just maybe then. maybe we could stay,
stuck in this timezone for another hour."
bullet! it doesn't matter what i try to say
she's still kneeling down as if she prays,
bent over like a flower.
and. and. and.
(i am being ignored)
but the inevitable was somewhere in the shadows
where we couldn't see,
as we laid our bodies down in that meadow,
to sleep eternally.
but that's just what we liked to think.
there was a world going by outside
(that's just what we loved to think.)
that these tall grasses could only hide
temporarily.
that's just what we loved to think.

and now that i'm out of that dream world
i'm just wishing that i was fucked up
because that's the only way that i can find
to escape this place, to escape this state of mind.
but isn't this her fault?
laying naked in that bed
(Heathen)
with those razor-sharp legs
making paper-crisp cuts
all across my wrists
or is it in the air
that intoxicated my lungs,
sent the fumes straight to my head
and away from my life undone.

so scribble out another page in that diary.
it's just more thoughts that leave a soul crying.
(is it just? is it just?)
it doesn't matter if it's you, her, or me.
eventually, one of us will end up dying.
and that is a plot turn we cannot ignore
(is it just? is it just?)
as your ink spills out onto the floor.
you wipe it up but still a few stains remain.
forming a question, "is it ever gonna be the same?"
(is it the same? is it still the same?)
question: "are you ever gonna be okay?"
(are we all gonna be okay? is it okay?)
lesson: "this is what you get for pain."
pain that is what you cause, spread over thousands of pages
that you lost somewhere among your fits of raging
due to incoherent thoughts caused by a frame
of life... that you created.
(is it just? is it just?)

say you won't be a lost cause.
say you won't.
(say you won't. say you won't.)
call off your games. remove your clothes.
assume this form that is so pure,
that it causes even reality to blur.
for that moment until you finally explode.
in a heat of passion for precision,
and then you realize the faults of your descison
but it's too late. you're done and through,
and he becomes just another to walk away from you.
you, covered in his sweat. you, just an outlet
for chemicals trapped inside his head
you, just a face and body he can easily forget.