Make Room In That Coffin

 Death frosted over as I'm looking for an escape. Dreaming of another world while stuck in a rut with a body scaling in skin. So many days are left just thinking of how many lives could be lost within someone's head in the span of morning, noon and night and all inbetween. I'm the one creeping out hoping no-one lets me in. 

Plastic embrace, wasted face. The thoughts of yesterday's lip fillers aimed high but no killers. Disappear into the outlet of memory. The thoughts fleeing into the recess of it all. I don't remember the standard life we had planned. And yet I don't understand how I feel when there's nothing left to feel but the pain inside my body. The hoodoo voodoo dolls got me good. I'm just surprised they haven't killed me yet.

You can see it all in the varnished truth that stakes its claim in lies. The machine we know so well can let us in on an answer that is being kept out by official sources. Smears, slurs and lies, the outlet of the rich descending across the nation, happily deciding the politics of every other nation. Dead heat = dead meat - we're in deep shit. The perameters of time won't heal us from the destruction we face.

Whatever you do, make room in that coffin for me. Whatever you see, don't tell them my name! 

It remains to be seen how I fare from the act of oversharing. The vicissitudes of modern life are a chore and I must be a deathly bore. Nevermind, I understand, I just wanted to get things off my chest. Pent up anxiety takes its toll on me and I could dream but then I can't.

I just wanted a clear conscience. I guess that's too much to ask for

Drown/Death Reheated

Follow into the echo chamber. Follow into the endless desire of a broken mind. Walking barefoot on glass splinters. The remedies we seek on further inspection. Lies, blame and deflection are the name of the game. I want to drown out her rampant paranoia or I wish that she would drown. I know it's not very polite but she drains the living daylights out of me.

Glass half empty, glass half full - what difference does it make which side you see it from. Throwing away half your history because of a fundamental misunderstanding. We could tell you everything and you'd still revert to your own superstitious intuition. I could make a guess but I can't sleep right now. Listen to the music and drown me out.

Cloistered in my own hermitic seal, the torment of living at the whim of others. What could we learn? What could happen if we were to be inside in another part of the world with something to live for. Here I just feel like I'm death reheated many times a day. Arguing over useless self-help manuals who wish to take 5 minutes of your life advertising useless junk.

Give her asylum so that she can live without draining the lives of everyone she meets. A paranoid energy vampire divulging too many plain secrets of madness to anyone who'll listen. Combine with cabin fever and she'll implode. Too much information on sordid details of her life living like the perpetual teenager. It gives you everything you never needed at all.

Drown in the sea of sound, of memory or of the distant past. The choice is anyone's yet I have the been defeated by the ghosts of anxiety and tension. I wish it all could just disappear even if I'm only ever going to feel disappointed that there was nothing to stop us at all. Nothing that could numb the pain.

 

Remedy The Renegade

Remedy the renegade. Chanting until the die is cast. Made me dream of another life that's deserted me. I'm on the outside looking back. No use for weapons here, no point in attack. I see you approaching in the coldness of the night. I wonder where it all went when time creeps by.

Sanction and sustain, times were we refrain. I'm growing old and more despondent. The lies I tell myself to keep my spirits up. "But do it with sincerity." Keep dreaming of an end of some sort if only just to tell myself that there's something. 

All I can focus on now is the pain that never leaves. All I can ask for is for something to work. Another prognosis with an unconfirmed shelf life. You know the story from here, we just write the words. Medication is all there is.

Shadow of The Environment

Turning faces to the same old tune. Mix me a molotov or fly me to the moon. The pain stops here or it inflames. Playing games with the order we've had before. Same old score. The clichés run in here as you would expect. I've come to expect nothing less. 

It's in the shadow of the environment. Cancelled appointments - the list of disappointments. Remember all your disturbed teenage dreaming. It'll never work here. But simplicity was the spice that came with a price. Your face in the shadows. Lurking in every memory.

Spindly wires have you remembering every disturbed teenage dream. The spaces between friends gets bigger. Spatially enclosed, the nightmares make you remember phrases in other languages. Even in bad syntax you get the blues. Piranhas in the bathtubs. The perfect place to bleed for careless translation in transport.

The injections will stop the pain only for a while. In the end there's always another diagnosis. If only things were perfect, these memories wouldn't hurt so much. How they rip me apart until I lay down and fall asleep again. These days I only dream in braille but maybe that's for the best when it happens.

In the shadow of the environment, I turn to you and I let go.

Don't Bang The Drums

The shadows of time, the scenery of unkempt deciphers wittering on a scroll of shame. But who's to blame and who really cares? You're waiting in the distance with the time-honoured tradition. From sedition to sedation, the elation didn't last that long. It became a disaster that time has been unkind to. In discomfort, the lines have been drawn and there's no such thing as cabin fever. We were there, we understood. Time can't return - moving on to reap the rewards of a cruel outlook. But who are we to decide the rules?

Damage is done, ergo no fun. We speak in riddles before telling the truth. I'm a cryptic catastrophe living in unheralded infamy. Move along to the same song and everything will be fine. Don't bang the drums too loudly - you've never had it quite like this. Moving backwards for the sake of a societal collapse. Collecting traps that'll never fit - it's all very considered. You're next line starts here, to boost your earnings click here!

The ideology of a broken home from a broken system of a broken country. Magic starts elsewhere, you're allowed to fight. They'll look for excuses though, they always do. Nothing reminds you of futility quite like living in it. It just drives you to distraction because it's the only thing they can extract. It's happened before and will happen again. And we'll see the paranoia kick in at around about this time too. It's enough for some to join the Ted Kaczynski fanclub. Another mistake brought about by rotten greed.

Closing In On Traditional Middle-Age

Elicit dreams of guilt. A sense of something that runs on compassionate grounds. Ideals and thoughts along the faultlines of the decency of humanity. We seek, we dream a new religion but nothing washes away the stain of that feeling. The panicked feeling of being ignored. Muted out and drowned for good reason. The fight's not there and never will be. You can have it all if you turn away right now.

I wanted some company as misery only to make jokes and feel less alone. The feelings of idiocy linger long after the thoughts have subsided and accepted the unity of pain and go it alone. Moving to secrecy and leaving no one but themselves. The static burst and the dreams retreat. Live in grey solitude. The harmless wonder. You never wonder why your friendships are ruined and whether it has something to do with you. You shouldn't live your whole life feeling you've been put upon by the world.

After all you were so self-contained as a child, it's no wonder you were made to feel that something was wrong with you. Maybe there is but it's too late to care now you're closing in on traditional middle-age. These days only the cat's scrapes across your hands make you feel alive. Better to accept reality that you're more than half dead.

Broken and wounded, people aren't for you and you are certainly a joke to them. 10 years have gone by since it crippled you, no use in crying over proverbial spilt milk. Layers go by and the diagnosis will be come soon.