Thursday, November 3, 2011

(In The World)

you hold things. things you probably are not supposed to hold. carry, things you're better off without. but you do. you think. you think. you're not sure. but you do. you carry. you hold. and you write, as exorcism, as catharsis, as disposal, as bullshit - you do. you think. you think. you're not sure, you rethink as you repeat things you've already typed to sound more whimsical, more musical - and here you go, you do it again - easier to handle, to grasp, to understand, when broken into pieces. so you stop. so you halt. you think, rethink - both thinking and rethinking leading nowhere new, no new things to hold, no lighter things to carry. you write. you rewrite. and this girl in red hair wants you to make her feel like she's the only girl in the world, as if your shit isn't enough. aspirin. you jump and jump until your legs die. they die, you oblivious. it's probably a remix, but it's fine. eventually, later that night, you'll sleep.

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