A bad joke without lines
Punch the air, hands collapse in desperate coma
My eyes pinpoint out the illusion, a bad dream these ties
A stale and ugly kiss
Handsome ridges melt away the layers of waste, think prodding savior eating away at raw nerve flesh
...
Self-medicating ghost of times past forgotten
There is no dark pride in loneliness
Escape those thick heads, denounce those addictions and memory fade
What?s your pleasure, pistol or syringe?
...Watch those memories
Or drop dead
Tuesday, December 5, 2006
echo echo
Abia aşteptam să ajungă la partea aia unde el închidea ochii. Cu asta îmi poluam creierul în fiecare zi. De obicei măream imaginea şi o puneam pe pause. Într-o zi am mîngîiat-o.
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