EverybodyElse

A conversation in your head
or a broken meter lost instead:
they want to tell you what you've misses;
they want to show you that you've pissed
away all the love you've ever had
along with promises too high to add.
At your ear, God whispers your destiny:
a vault of illusions, allusions, and elusive pity.
You can't let it go
as if it's for show
and the lines you draw
on flesh that won't thaw
remind your heart to beat
and your blood to heat.
It's all in preparation
for a more perfect perfection:
a you who is human,
someone who really can.
If it's all a ploy,
just a sly decoy,
then call me out
'cause you know what I'm about.
But fuck the perception
from lack of inspection.
Think for your fucking self.
I am everybody else.

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I can't seem to stop myself from fucking rhyming and it's really annoying me. I am, however, writing with less structure for whatever that adds or subtracts from what I write. Write write write write write. It's fun to type that word. I only just noticed that now. Or maybe it's just more fun typing, in general, on Jess' laptop.

I want a word for this, but I guess if I ever found one, I'd stop writing all together. It's a search I'm on, a hunt. For what? For something that will take what's inside and literally pull it out. And I do mean literally. The word doesn't exist or if it does it's elusive. This has nothing to do with anything, but - then again - what ever really does?



I'm a roman candle; my head is full of flames." Elliott Smith Roman Candle