Thunderous clouds on the horizons,
as the demise of happiness is fading fast.
I’m cutting your wrist with a butter knife.
of me dreaming of a better existence.
you feel my dialog is persistent,
much like this record in my head that’s at a steady skip.
Got me turning up toward ceiling
lookin for a proverbial bump from your hip,
but in my eye fell a paint chip,
and I think;
God, could you make it anymore clearer!
This hangover of laughter
is almost worst
then that of past guttering offenses.
My soul is pissed off
to which this sad head is defenseless
from nerves that quake my insides.
yet to look at me you’d think I’d died.
is how I cry.
& everything else.