when I die, bury me in a pine box. no shoes, no suit, no sheets.
just a not from me to my maker, that reads "am I finally free?".
The sleep merchant offers me an escape through dream breaks
Wrinkles in time replace wrinkles on face
Ease into liquid, that milky embrace
Let the cold black moon swallow my fate
Follow my feet to the creek of my youth, where ghost inhabit my memories now they’re all dressed like enemies
Strange how perceptions can change when the root of the problem has always stayed the same
I retain all aspects of self, some distorted, dust on the shelf
Lust is my vice and I live like I’m dying
Ghost in the shell, hold on
Man, I’m trying
These shoestrings hang from trees with broken limbs
Hoping sin is subjectively grim, cause when I sleep I see things with clear vision but find myself waking the ghost with mere kisses.
Asleep in the kitchen
Knife on the vein.
Sleep, walking again. In love with the challenge.
Remove my voice box and speak with my talons.
Listen intently. Intense wrestling.
Torn between suicide and counting these blessings.
One (little). Two (little). Three (little) death traps.
Cancer in my soul again. No time to stress that.
Step back, take off, no place to rest at.
Things ain’t been the same since the day that my neck snapped.
Bitter built broken. Hope for the ocean.
Exposed to the cold due to years of erosion.
The mortar’s crumbling. Bricks fall like a ton of feathers.
I remember when we used to love each other.