I want so badly to believe that “there is truth, that love is real”
And I want life in every word to the extent that it’s absurd
I know you’re wise beyond your years, but do you ever get the fear
That your perfect verse is just a lie you tell yourself to help you get by?
- The Postal Service
Am I a fool?
What do I hang on to?
Why do I pray?
What’s my mainstay?
Why do I hold out hope when I’m at the end of my rope?
What’s the meaning of life when I feel the strife?
It disgusts me, playing games for the hell of it
just for the hell of it
or to throw me off what I finally think I have
some peace of mind,
a little time,
where I’m happy unto myself,
A slice of heaven but for a day
after that nothing’s ok
ignored
and abhorred
after fits of bliss.
The mind strays, frays, splays
feelings in every direction,
No more affection.
Why do I put up with this shit?
Every little bit, eating away at my heart
like some long-strayed dart,
aimed with poison
but not intent to kill,
just to break the will
of the one who dares
to feel with stares
and glares
and pairs of eyes
hoping to hypnotize
and feel what once was lost
now double-crossed
and lost in prayer.
I’m not in the mood to write about day 3. Tomorrow.
