Litkicks Message Board Archive
Praying for your sincerity
And I act out of loyalty
I defend my own country
But I hate it in it's pain.
Hospitals do so many lobotomies
Save tiny little families?
Is it just a fantasy?
Or really is it for fame?
Hold me up in your resolutions
Going on happy dates with confusion
Was the poetry written such a bastard?
I often feel guilty since I have that kind of
basterdized love of the words I read by others.
Somebody said that they don't like my attitude -- not much like I am I know I can create and write enough old words, "Raising to you to along to "sing-song sing-song"
Then I sink on down, down, lower to downers to frowners...
I'm a slippery "pessimist master"
I'm a living apocalyptic disaster.
Oh, Thank you God for making me from dust of this earth (the rib from Adam oh yes)
I feel very guilty for the debt and for my thirst.
Don't let me down in rumbling restitution
I Live out every date with confusion sadly ...
The whole process of writing makes me feel like a bastard...
and I do feel guilty by not knowing so much about
I listen and write to the darkness and light
Let me just go away to the artist old folks home
I would be more happy there rather here alone.
Trips into the darkness of my own solitary soul
sometimes are as empty as a very deep hole...
Can you resolve the feelings I hide with my life you can not know?
Or do I disolve the feelings altogether with one lethal blow?
Love me, or leave me to realise that I'm afraid.
Love so either one of these lines are not my happiest parade.
Leave me or love me it has come to this matter,
sometimes the comments depress me with their chatter.