11:49 pm / Wednesday, May. 07, 2008
my worthless words are starting to decay
rot like oranges in the sun for days
and the stench is overpowering all
of the pleasant smells in my snout.
Counting minutes, hours, days, weeks, years
until the moment my soul disappears--
the shaping of humility and humiliation
the filtering down of my actions.
It's all dying--
burying itself in the nooks of my
theoretical heart-- the place where even my blood won't venture.
a cavern deeper than any blacked-out memory,
a hole, trap, infatuated lapse in judgment.
Every word is spelled the same,
spoken and pronounced like an American Dream is something to strive towards.
I don't believe it to be.
I don't want to believe in selfishness
self: improvment, loathing, esteem.
I just don't want to believe.
Myself. My. soul. My pain, and the way I
force my voice horse by the end of each thought, sentence-- experience.
So as my words are wormed, destroyed, devoured-- I will allow myself to eat them.
undercooked and filled with disease--
I will choke on them until
I have nothing left to say.
I have no more wind to push past my teeth through lips (too often unkissed)
and I will turn purple--
blackout, like I arrived-- in a blackout.