Your hair is an act of God.
Here I am and there is my body dancing on glass.
I feel like I’m eighty years old. I’m tired of life and my mind wants to die.
Please. Don’t switch off my mind by attempting to straighten me out. Listen and understand, and when you feel contempt don’t express it, at least not verbally, at least not to me.
Embrace beautiful lies – the chronic insanity of the sane.
There’s not a drug on earth can make life meaningful.
Sleep with a dog and rise full of fleas.
I crave white on white and black, but my thoughts race in glorious technicolour, prodding me awake, whipping away the warm blanket of invisibility every time it sears to smother my mind in nothing.
I am an emotional plagiarist, stealing other people’s pain, subsuming it into my own until I can’t remember whose it is any more.
Have you made any plans? Take an overdose, slash my wrists then hang myself. All those things together? It couldn’t possibly be misconstrued as a cry for help.
I love you still, Against my will.
I’m here, got no choice. But you, you should be telling people.
I am the beast at the end of the rope.
It is myself I have never met whose face is pasted on the underside of my mind.
I know. I’m angry because I understand, not because I don’t.
But I am not here and never have been.
A circle is the only geometric shape defined by its centre. No chicken and egg about it, the centre came first, the circumference follows. The earth, by definition, has a centre. And only the fool that knows it can go wherever he pleases, knowing the centre will hold him down, stop him flying out of orbit. But when your sense of centre shifts, comes whizzing to the surface, the balance has gone. The balance has gone. The balance my baby has gone.
Your disbelief cures nothing.
You can only kill yourself if you’re not already dead.
I sing without hope on the boundary.