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Friday, April 9, 2004
Cold Heartless Itch
For whatever stupid reason, it's not allowing me to edit my posts. I decided to tweak this poem a bit at its end, so ignore the older one, and listen to this one.
It's 4:44
I don't know if I can take it anymore
I need to get out of this hellhole
I need to get outside
Sick of being stuck inside this sucker pulp
of skin I wear
I'm gonna shed
It's snowing outside
In April's love
She's kissing all of us
Showing us how we're slugs
Moving slow with our iron lungs
She's a real bitch from what I see
She should've stayed away from me
Should've rained down on me instead.
I cleaned this place of wood, nails, steel, and paint
I cleaned her till she felt ransacked
I smell the smell of bleach
It makes me itch
You've gotta scratch your itches
Gotta know that's what's inside
The chemicals make you fine.
I don't know anymore
I don't know anymore.
Mind's sore, heart's a whore,
hands've torn, legs feel wore,
I don't know anymore.
My spine's spineless in its lore,
my back's feeling carried with its load.
The shoulders bent to expose
the thing I carry.
I don't know anymore.
There's a tapeworm inside
He's bored deep inside
He's tearing up my insides
I don't think I can function anymore.
The tapeworm's got the floor.
I don't know anymore.
What can make it unsore?
Make it whole?
Piece its parts?
Sew the heart?
Oh hello sharp acute stab
I feel it into me
The gnats grab it now.
The insectile swarm onto me
Faceless things.
Would you like to see me try?
Would you like to see me try?
I'll end up and cry.
The failure to your eye.
Don't deny
the failure to your eye.
Don't deny
I shot myself in the thigh.
I'm not walking anymore.
I don't know anymore.
It's snowing
There's solace in this.
The strange feeling it gives exists.
April's making a storm.
She's such a bitch.
You're all
The cold heartless itch.
It's all
The cold heartless itch.
What a bitch.
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