It's November now.
On T.V., people are sick of hurricanes.
I'm sick of T.V.
I've got blasphemy that looks brand new,
but it's just polished old stuff.
It tastes a little funky, it's got a different sound,
like a city picked the good buildings and burned the rest down.
Loot me like a liquor store in an LA riot
Steal my inventory, drink my product,
and piss out the poison your liver couldn't process.
Time to lax again.
If you don't breathe...you'll die. (It's true I read it.)
The trouble with you.
Woe to the connections and memories to boot.
Waiting for elevators, pondering the weight of
Travel connect 1-2-3-4.
Begging for clean lenses on and or about
what reason we connect for.
more than a vacation from a world of rainy days
(who am I kidding, months) which come and come and stay.
Suffering is what it takes lately, I suppose.
Trudging towards a smile, sticking to a phone call.
And I wish, ya know,
like a child, I just wish before every door opens,
That a plane wouldn't be so cruel to me again.
Books and mystics can't give good reason,
why my palms sweat. Or,
why my strength becomes my weakness,
whenever he laughs a little.
Of all the wisdom I've ever known,
it's rarely does me good.
I've learned to cherish,
and am still left wanting more to cherish.
Lost in translation and missing you.