Brutal. Punishing. Waiting for the next gut punch, off-chance it's a caress. Gotta wait. But I digress. I'm getting beaten up, eaten up, can't do this anymore, can't be trying to find someone.
Turn away. Turn away. Don't be flayed. Don't be played. Don't get laid. Turn away. Can't be flayed, when I'm turned away. Turned away.
There don't need to be examples. I don't need to be an example. I don't need to learn from examples. If I turn away.
I see that I'm doing it. Getting played. Getting flayed. You can see that I'm doing it. So I'm turning away, running away so I can't be seen.
Was barely seen anyway, but I put my face in the fray, so I could be rayed with the little light I could get. The light that burned, I'm turning away, running away, so I can't be burned again, diving into the dark sea where I'm a little drop of awareness, I can still be seen if you really wanna see me, if you wanna meet me halfway, in the gray, I'll be here, if you really wanna, but I'll no longer burn in the light.
2/05/19
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
-
Got no one to talk to, so I’m venting online. So, I really tried to hustle this week. Applied to five places. Even with the xanax it was har...
-
Actual composition instead of an hour-long improv indulgence, 'sbeen a while. I wanted to call it The Dandy Whoremonger, but settled on ...
-
Doing a writing exercise, I guess, is what I'm doing. Because I've hardly written anything for months. Since I got sober, yet again....
not paranoid when you should be just one of my normal keyboard improvisations, nothing special, except that it's recorded on a real grand.
No comments:
Post a Comment