Friday, April 3, 2009



my idle hands
are killing me, this
wrecking ball of
reality hurtling at
my bones, crashing
capillaries and good
intentions as one;
drink to forget that
you forget why you drink,
what you have drank,
then who sits beside you.

if i am not creating,
i am killing myself
slowly and gladly,
a covert masochist
at my fingertips, sipping
on sin as if it were
bourbon, sweet
drops stick on lips,
give enough leave
to get out of my skin,
to fill the empty

tempo rarity, this
mass lack of
permanence and the
desire to forget.


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