miercuri, 8 ianuarie 2014

In my mind,I'm running backwards

in my mind,I'm running backwards
towards my bed,into chapped hands,
to a hole in the ground because
I'm tired and I'm lost and I'm overwhelmed
by a tide of numbing pain
that just won't shut up

the transition from idleness to bloom
is almost like tearing yourself off again
from the walls of an uncertain
the sound is too loud and the lights are too bright
and,for whatever reason,
it doesn't feel right
to call this chaos "home"

wherever I look,there's a hollowness
to the core of even
the most mundane of things,
which leads me to believe I'm among
a waltz of carcasses
that breathe and talk and walk,
but never do look kindly upon
running backwards

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