it's pourin outa my veins
it doesn't mean shit
it doesn't mean shit
it's pourin outa my head
it's pourin outa my veins
it doesn't mean shit
it's just life brutha
it's life fucka
it's life fucka
i want more life... fucka
it's pourin outa the thing
pourin outa that thing
I DON'T KNOW WHY
I DON'T KNOW WHY
i could reconcile, to sleeping, that would be best, when i don't have the constant company, the good enough negative attention - it's so uncouth, so indecent to ache so much, when i can't name what i'm withdrawing from, could try if they held a gun to my head
the ice water needs a straw, need somebody to suck me up - the kind of attention i deluded myself into thinking i had, a need like a blooming bloody arabesque in pure liquid - it will come around again if i let it, let enough
it's cruel to feel the precise edges of what i lack, to be able to outline them in contours that poke at me, sweet-tipped pain i'll allow - let echo, turn the feedback all the way to ten
when the android updates, this time, everything will gel - i won't know it at the time, but this latest cycling of gelling will feel as good as a creeping lubraderm film enveloping my skin, a layer of pure moisturized joy to stretch out sensation with, venture out some limbs
the last best thing hasn't been said yet, i can't go to bed until it's said - but then again, maybe i can - it's too bad it's such a downturn i will make into a bigger drama just for the sake of feeling it fully
let's tag this life with an up-beat Jamaican nurse, softly nudging my white-knuckle grip on the edge of the cliff to slack
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