extremely long waste of fucking time

and still: dried out or mushy i hear the ringing of "old fashioned": with thoughts sealed in tupperwear and donuts that should've been. sometimes i like to think and other times i just like to shake my head. cold blooded killers on the loose and broken ribs mashing livers I'm still me, and i'm still here. if i had a good excuse, i would've used it long ago. and if i had a good escape i'd've been gone for ages. incidentally: i am still dumbfounded scratching my head asking questions. i'm stuck. my chin says "oh", but my eyes say "what the fuck?!" each time i dream of this rut it digs in a little deeper and each time i say "goodbye" the climb seems a little steeper. if i were a magician, i'd disappear. if i were a sky-- i'd stay clear. but.. i can't. i'm a railroad crossing and i always get in the way. oxygen keeps me alive today my heart gets in the way. if it did its job and pumped blood maybe it wouldn't feel so heavy all the time. but it doesn't. it flutters like a canary in hell begging release from its cage. and if i didn't need it i'd pitch it. down the sink, in the ocean, in a well. far enough away so i couldn't hear it crying, sobbing and aching. i'd give it away if i could find anyone who wanted it. but why should they? i don't want it, and its mine its a bit too sad of an affair: this heart, these muscles and all the tears trapped inside. but if i let them go, they might never stop. i thought i liked myself, but i woke up one day and realized this skin, this brain and all these strange body parts: i don't want them. i don't even think they're mine someone forgot them here. and my eyes, like little white marbles roll and clank until i'm blind. and when i shrug its because i am tired of cursing myself. "what is it about me, that I don't think i'm worth it?" it couldn't be that nagging could it? that burning, the one that runs like a vaccuum inside of me. maybe. but i'm not: i'm not worth it. i'd be worth the clothes on my back but they are old out of style and in desperate need of washing. Written December 31st, 2001 © on Dec 30 2001 04:35 PM PST   18 • 0 • 1