Pale
By Abilene
Black & white photographs- that's all it seems to be. These days are filed like white paper in stupid drawers that take up space. I cannot believe how you jab me. I've made it a pattern- like clockwork I suffer. Like a madman I draw my pistol and drive my nails and never do I want you to love me again. Who I am- what I'm made of- is not your way. And you ruin me...My anger shoots aimlessly at you, and I want to kill what has given me such anger, but then I think about wiping up your blood, sobbing & sore-eyed. I get furious, and things don't make sense- I'll ease into this chair and stir up a tear, and dream about the railroad, the cemetery, the places we'd run away to and hold eachother...how ironic. I should have seen it then- the sadness in the two.We’re on a road in which no one runs, only the black tracks of long gone days.We’re yards & yards of broken bones, where skin is cold, alone, and grey.My love for you has grown pale...my eyes are closed & wet. Written November 28th, 2001 © on Nov 28 2001 12:39 AM PST 0 • 1
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"Black & white photographs- that's all it seems to be. These days are filed like white paper in stupid drawers that take up space. I cannot believe how you jab me. I've made it a pattern- like clockwork I suffer. Like a madman I draw my pistol and drive my nails and never do I want you to love me again. Who I am- what I'm made of- is not your way. And you ruin me...My anger shoots aimlessly at you, and I want to kill what has given me such anger, but then I think about wiping up your blood, sobbing & sore-eyed. I get furious, and things don't make sense- I'll ease into this chair and stir up a tear, and dream about the railroad, the cemetery, the places we'd run away to and hold eachother...how ironic. I should have seen it then- the sadness in the two.We’re on a road in which no one runs, only the black tracks of long gone days.We’re yards & yards of broken bones, where skin is cold, alone, and grey.My love for you has grown pale...my eyes are closed & wet...."