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(streams of consciousness)

now we fear this concrete hallway
(the bad things make us love each other more)
the darkness outside can be stitched with scissors,
cause light is such an obvious band aid.

you can pull a noose over my thumb,
but only if i have a say,
my neck's too breakable,
and we all like to breathe.

today there are women,
and a lot of them sing,
and there are boys who sing, too
but what's their purpose?
to sound sexy,
like a love sonnet,
that kind of love bores me
('but love really bores me')

trends of whitefish on toast,
and an allegory for the color yellow.
my heart bleeps resound with a sudden 'POP!'
i'd be lucky to just always
hold your hand.
('i want to hold your hand')

no one ever told me it was my fault
(maybe they did)
no one ever told me
it wasn't my fault
(maybe they did)
i just assumed it was anyway.
i'm not supposed to think about
morbid stuff.
but the crazy stickman
the...moose behind the walls(giggle)

an orange clock was not seen by
my nine year old eyes,
but a SnapeAngel
christ associates,
couch loungin'
hope interference
internal monologue.
...
MY THOUGHT DREAMS ARE STITCHED WITH
GORILLA GLUE
it melts and craves orange juice.
people aren't sexy,
that harmonica on the otherhand...
thumbtacks like a home,
a sunspot, a sullen passerby
with a male equivalent
stands with holding hands,
favoring a smoothie,
coffee makes our bones brittle
we like the taste of the cup,
the malls with the sugarcoated alley ways.
the concrete boss
made of feathers.
the detrimental soap bubbles.
the innocence of songs,
with a heartbeat
we could reconsider.



///i wrote a line, and then that line reminded me of something. and so forth\\\

Created: Dec 13, 2010

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SchismCynicLaaady Document Media