desperate new lives on three kinds of bread
choose your poison, rum, whiskey
killing pasts and opening presents
and beating down doors
to get to more, so damn tired all the time
but i run, run, run because i'm not
i'm not. it's true. placebos can be
beautiful sometimes.
if snails see the benefit then i'm not fit
to listen in, i'm no fly on the wall
i see only fall, spring, winter, autumn again
and man is it beautiful this time around
only i feel collapsed, congealed
like everything happy happens in lumps
and everything good
is almost never me
but sometimes it is, too
so you're a perfect reminder
1 comment:
this is so ambivalent and good D:
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