Lung Hours

Too far a distance Too long a life Too simple a question Too complex an answer It feels alone A flower Some bushes A wall of trees And perhaps one or two birds It feels alone The roaring crowd Under the dazzling lights With their dosed up minds And their empty hearts It feels the same Running thoughts Rucked up ones Sucked up souls Wound up ghouls It feels the same It feels the same In search of fame It sounds so lame Yet, part of the game It feels the least It feels the most It feels the same It feels alone And yet so numb This game is dumb

It's tightening its grip by the second, smothering me to the point right before death. Then it lets go, just for long enough a time so that breathing gets back to how it must be. But that doesn't last for any longer than a second. It comes back again, in a way that's way more powerful than the last time. Yet, somehow, I don't wonder anymore. I'm used to it. Well, it's more like I'm addicted to it. We're addicted to one another. In a sense, you could say I love it; you could say it loves me. I don't know what it is, though. That's no problem, for it's always been here. And also there. That's all that matters. This is everything.

I'm just lying down, staring at the cracks of a mirror I broke. All the other things I don't understand, they are all out there taking part in what they must. I used to keep on wondering, searching for an answer. It put me in distress, filled me with distaste. So I just gave up, stopped all my thoughts, jammed them in a dark room, and said "Forever goodbye." Took over then my heart. Said "Forever, I'll love." It kept on walking the line that it should never have. By the way that it fell, in that state of well, it did cheer me up. It was an unseen hell. "It all turned out fine, or at least OK." That's what I tell myself, and I include no delay. I'm just lying down, rolling around. Forevers are gone, gones are forever. So why don't you just lie down, try to roll around, say why you're doing this. It would all be alright, or at least OK. For everyone I know. And all the rest that I don't. P.S. Casimir Pulaski Day is a loc

Long hours and a few dying flowers ... It's all about us, isn't it? All the rights and wrongs don't matter the least when she's there. While enjoying or seeming to enjoy the very moments of our li(v)es, we all slowly decay. It looks as if something inside is crooked down to its every root, being upheld by a void that however we try just can't seem to be filled. Meanwhile, a sense that I don't know how to exactly describe appears. It's a simultaneous process of death and life. Here, I am stuck. Let's call it YFB, your fucking bullshit. It never leaves me to rest. Every fucking time, it takes a different form and then crawls up and around the tree of my life, leading me to a wasteland of every possible and impossible thought. One fun part of it is that it's got no core, no point of focus. The strikes are brought down in a disorderly manner; however, they grow in power and fondness by each second. Now, you may think that it only causes me to experie

This has yet to be completed, but I don't know what to do.

Cool (x2) Cool (x5) The other day, I read somewhere that no work of art worth something has ever been a result of happiness. That ought to be wrong, right? Common, tell me?* I had been avoiding even the jotting down of my own thoughts, which I do on a haphazardous non-stop basis, until I could manage to get a hold of joy or something along the lines of it. A good deal of time was spent on it. That can't have been all for naught. The belief that a masterpiece like The Rolling Stones' Play with Fire is merely a consequence of misery must be a contagious load of highly convoluted dogmatism forcefully fed to an empty vessel of a mind. It is my belief that all such pieces come from a connivance of uncertainty. And not in a way that leaves one's thoughts in turmoil. But in one in which the grayness of life's mechanics are embraced and put into use for further improvement. Love and hate, desire and disgust, joy and sadness, pride and shame, hope and fear; these all are the