18.10.20

11:11

JOURNAL

it's not that i really intended to be here,
an invisible string brings me forward,
pushes me into the present,
there can't be any other way

i'd grip the gun and blow my brains out,
but i don't own one, i don't like them,
and untimely messes disgust me,
like cold butter on cold toast

the sun breaks, again, again
flashing every half-millisecond
into the eye that bears reality,
up from grave to cradle,

though i wouldn't even notice,
in a blacked out room, with a view,
if only the blinds were opened,
and the windows, the air

would take me beautifully,
i could smell, salt and decay

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