the meds
and the feds
they are all coming
I won’t do too much scheming
These days, these days.
These days I sit on corner stones
And count the time in quarter tones to ten.
Please don’t confront me with my failures,
I had not forgotten them.
This room stinks of smoke and gas
How much longer will this stupid fuck last
My wife has been asleep for a while
Can’t seem to open up those eyes
Jimmy are you done, I’m soon to become a nun
So proud to have accidentally triggered this gun
I thought this craze would make me famous
Never imagined the bin would ever tame us
Very possibly, I’m fucking drunk already
The furniture can’t seem to stand steady
Edie don’t judge me, can’t you see that I’m ugly
A genius never reveals the art of being crazy
Oh, Joy is looking sad this time at night
Did I say something wrong to make us cry
The ship has sailed far away now my friend
I appreciate the tragedies we never spent
I love you Amy, now let me be your money
You look dashingly good in green, honey
MY GOD IS ME
Are any of us really naive? I chose myself how much I want to believe in things, so am I really naive to not believe in love? I mean, I have no clue of how or where Santa came from or why. But still I’ve chosen not to believe. I’ve only seen bad impostors at the mall and on the telly. Kids bragging about how they saw him fly away with his reindeer and about all the presents he brought. And still I don’t believe because it sound more to me that they are the naive ones.
And just like Santa, comes love. It’s something I see wives fake towards their obese and bald husbands at the grocery store. It’s what I see celebrities act upon when they chose to make a realityshow about their wedding. Only to let us know a month later, that they are getting divorced. Till death do us part?”, no. There is absolutely nothing on this planet that I could not live without, but my own self. Without myself, there would be no me. Without you I wouldn’t be any… more or less than what I already am.
.//
I imagine the red lips of Robert Smith as they sing “You couldn’t love me more”, but the thing is that, it’s the other way around. “You couldn’t love me less” is what people should be telling me. But then again, what if lovestories are the one thing about Hollywood films that aren’t complete fucked up hypocrisy? What if I, in my own film, am the reason to why the hero always dies after saving the world? That I believe enough in not believing, that my beliefs shatter?
Like Dr.Seuss’ “Horton hears a Who”, quotes: “I mean what I say, and I say what I mean”. But if I don’t know what I mean, do I know what I’m saying? Am I saying what I mean, by saying what I’m saying?
“The L Word”, to my lungs is nothing more but the “Lucky” Lucky Strike between my fingers. I’ve somehow chosen to not believe in love, yet I know nothing about it.
