i really hate the couple of hours before i sleep.






.

i wanna put off tomorrow, but that's become commonplace for me bout half the time these days. in spite of the distraction of my stupid lungs, i keep looking inside otherme, picking at these scabs, trying t'dance in this lifeboat.

ignoring my body,
treating my heart like the Bronze Medal Winner at the Special Olympics.
there, there


"Tongue tied, bleeding from your eyes, even christ himself would cringe at the sight of your scars. While you're counting sheep, I'll count my lucky stars, you were the last good thing I ever saw." -Alkaline Trio

but i dun believe that. i just don't understand the turn, the utter abruptness of it.
it got left somewhere in the tops of the clouds, and i cannae reach that high anymore.

""Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments
Will him about mine ears; and sometime voices,
That if I then had waked after long sleep,
Will make me sleep again, and then in dreaming
The clouds methought would open and show riches
Ready to drop upon me, that when I waked
I cried to dream again."
- William Shakespeare, The Tempest, 3.2

it'snae even love anymore. not like that. it's so far beyond it, and so short of it at the same time.
i have broken these laws of physics, moving into ontologistics, humoring the sleepwalking antics of my Cartesian Self by wordsmithing and painting pretty pictures on the insides of my sunglasses.
i have anchored my mailbox on the event horizon, spending nights licking stamps, propping the flag up with minor chords and heartstrings.
and if yeh've no ground, then yeh cannae have visitors.
Where would they rest?

zoom by and wave, smile. Leave your scent like only dying flowers can.


"Every man's memory is his own private literature" - Huxley



and i keep writing songs
and i keep writing songs
and these songs, and i keep singing low, but with my face to the sky
but this place i'm in ain't a place of wishes
every her & you is my inspiration
every un-me stronger than the hands and voice that root it.



Iconoclasm

in the loneliness of sitting by the phone
in the cold blue light of dawn
in the empty fields that are my hands
there is only you

in the quiet chairs i sit beside
in the under of my words
in the way that every wave is tidal now
there is only you

in the way i chop my mountains down
in the way i dance for rain
in the way the temple cries for heresy
there is only you

in the way i wear the floorboards thin
in the way i stoke my coal
in the way the ocean begs the moon
there is only you






but, there's not.






.

Lucinda Williams.


That is all.