Lung Hours

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

A deceitful belief, a certain set of presences; oddly behooving as it may seem, no reflection is seen. Feels like infertile clouds trying to pour down rain. More like a rotten cast. Yet the initial concept turns out to be the dispute in concern. Or is it that the eyes that bear witness to the trade are synthesized with deception? By what image has this been cast? From where has it been sent? Should not such ascension of uncertainty undermine it all?

Tell me about your God. What, where, when, and who keeps it all together for you? Is it not just a hologram? One that perhaps some day that you were alone, you created. In what ways does it work? Does it even? Does it hold your hand, wipe away those tears of yours, or put that smile back on your face? Does it alter the slope? Is it not that you do all these things by yourself? Is it not that you're the what, who, which, when, and where that all evolves around? Just take a look at the trails left behind, those hurdles and all the what-nots behind you. Sooner than what could ever be imagined, there will lie the very things you hold dear. There's a very good chance a bed has been lain for me. Just to stare as all fades away. There's hope there's time, and more likely not. So just tell me about that God of yours, that vicious novocaine that you hold the dearest. My words fail, time after time. My lines rumble, with or with no rhyme. Yet, in the corner at the back of your mi