It occurs to me I never did have friends. Just strangers under my clothes. I've never had lovers. Only people I've fucked. No relationships. No partners. Just masquerades that lasted long enough I would forget their disguises.
But it's dangerous to look through the keyholes of those locked doors. Nothing but pity painting all four walls.
So arrives some frail messiah to unite the poet and the alcoholic. Turning two feeble liars into one strong truth.
When choice and reason fail to meet people happen.
Reality owns me.
I can never buy myself back.
Time does me no service. Always happening.
Saturday
4/29/2006 12:38:00 AM
I understand the words, I can feel the emotion, but oddly enough it isnt sadness
Time is never a service to any of us. We get older and we think we know more than yesterday, but in reality, it will never be the same.
interesting insights both.
and yea, you caught me spyder, it's more of an apathy with a bitterness chaser.
sadness is for those who care.
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