i don't know what i am doing at all and i don't know why i don't know because i think
i know some things but i suppose i am wrong in thinking that i know anything. i don't know anything and i don't know why. and i don't know why i thought i knew anything, and i don't know where the knowledge i thought i had came from.
who knows what i know? what i know is nothing to know. there is nothing to know.
so if there is a need to know basis there is nothing to say. what is it that i thought i knew? i don't even know what i thought i knew. i just know that whatever i thought i knew was either wrong or i didn't actually know it.
i want to cut off my lips and run in the grass
i want to cut off my clothes and roll in the dirt
i want to tear off my skins and lick my teeth
i can only hear the ringing in my ears
and i can only taste the blood
from the heart i've torn and chewed
like cud
______________________________________________________________________________
i am a painter of dreams
i am a writer of light
my eyelids
are heavier than
2 bricks
______________________________________________________________________________
sad sold sentiments
in my pocket
fuck this.
who can say what i what i
i have nothing new to say.
the art of the stringing of words
like beads
to create the most beautiful
intricate necklace...
my fingers are paralyzed
crammed down my throat
and over my eyes
who could ever know that all i could think about
is everything
and you, you, random and worthless
are my recurring dream
and the rest of you
fester/s/ in the stomach
wrestling, flailing, in the bile
and unbeknownst to you
caught in the rip tides of my acid
you will be burned alive by my insides
my stomach, my stomach
clenching around you
churning
how do i purge?
running nauseous and blind
my nails are scraping
the soft insides of my throat
where i long only for sweet melodies to escape
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