It's hard to sing now.to merely have a train of thought in the sound of your digestive system. Grinding away at my thoughts.
Static. it's something that i wear now. Black and white that threatens to over run the colors that tinge these lenses.
Maybe i've just become bored with quick fixes. Remedies for do overs and make up collages that keep on falling -----.
I don't know. there's circles over my head.
Mocking the essence they've grown fond of. I'm immobile somedays.Stuck inside the numbers that i have put up as serrogate time tables.
Cover me. Cover this. Learn what? how to be a responsible active part of a well-oiled machine. That no one speaks out against and everyone's apart of. I lay awake at night and wish for anything. Rubbing against the sounds of my own skin. Trying on lonliness.           Dejected into comprehension.
  I taste bitter, like the undersides of a penny that's seen too many fountains and not enough answers.
Truth is. I've been running away. Running away from empty. And zero and the degrees that make you cold inside that warm tea and blankets can't cure when the diagnosis is yourself and the gaps that you fail to fill. I've been so busy with busting in doors and burning over story lines and song lyrics that i've left myself somewhere inside of it all. And all i can do now is cry and hurt because no one, no one can ever fix what really lies at the bottom of it all. What threatens to rape your soul, and turn yourself inside and on to of it all. No one can make you whole in the way that matters. Because our instinct is dark. It's so dark that it sums up and into basic scheme. black and white and the truth of these parts is simply static that i can't push away for long enough to love, hate. Disentagrate. It won't stop raining baby.      
  These secrets. Oh. these secrets