(It's the kinda mood that allows me
to write in brackets and mouseprints only;
such an absurd thing almost to think
all intensity got any less intense
if you choose a smaller box to put it in.)
So let me break down those lines for the sake of believing
I could shamelessly write about my every feeling -
by now I should, right?
By now it should be easy -
well, at least it's easier.
I've died again - oh, god, not again,
I can see everyone rolling their eyes
up to the back of their heads;
not turning away but loudly sighing
at how I hardly follow my own advice.
(The mortician laughs at my jokes
as he closes the casket, we're losing count
of how often we've repeated that very same scene -
I'm getting tired, you know?
Aren't you getting tired, too?)
This morning I prefered the state
of being up yet not fully awake,
blissfull inbetween-feeling,
last night's warped awareness still far away,
taste on my tongue so bitter I mistook it for pain.
(Some nights I still wanna slide back:
fight the symptons instead of the cause;
only in the spur of those moments,
it seems easier.)
There's nothing ethical about this hunger, is it?
Just ask another self still dressed
like a judge in court, you know -
I'm weary of it, too.
Exhausting just to hear them speak
always the very same
bad alibis.
Exhausting to take a phrase,
and tear it apart.
May I stop to analyze now?
(It's the kinda mood that allows me
to haunt the same four walls I've left behind
like I was still myself in the form
of a forgotten ghost that never found home.)
It's the kinda mood that allows me
to take a bite of this vague reality -
before it crumbles right at my feet,
I wonder, did it get to shape me?
