Sad Labels:
dark art
,
endings
,
loneliness
With woolly eyes she bit her nails. Too far down. Small arcs of flesh exposed too tender to withstand the world. The stomp of worn boots as they shimmy over the slick of her walk. A library of diagnoses under her pillow.
One more.
One more.
One more drink.
And then I'll be able to sleep.
Or at least wake up as if I had.
I pull on that familiar string. The parachute opens, but falling was so much better than this.
So far away. watching as it all rushes closer.
Its a funny thing that your poems never change. That feeling of hurt yet leaving it all to fate. The being a victim while already knowing the outcome, yet still cant avoid it. The utter abandonment to fate but still wanting to live an extra day.
I feed on your poems, sadly...
it's strange you interpret it that way. cuz i don't even believe in fate. it's just another way of saying god.
i am in a rut though lately.
stimulus is needed.
not really.
Fate as in "it has happenned, i know it will happen again".
Not acceptance, but letting it be.
I don't know anymore...
Post a Comment