a chaotic gift to idealism people told me that i was crazy. people have told me i am totally fucking wanked. i think i am as crazy as i want to be. i am mad. i have always been mad. i am totally fucking wanked. i cant understand why i am fucked except when i am.
retarded shit. totally retarded shit.
i have found myself running. i run from my home, i run from my mothers, i run from my father. i run until i have nowhere to run to except home. where should i go ?
what the fuck am i running from ?
i suppose you have to fear something in order to run. i know what i run from. i run from nothing. i have been running for so long. my feet hurt, my body is exhausted, my mind cant take it much more. i am a soldier. i will move on until my body collapses underneath me and my fingers bleed from dragging my own self. i will drag on until my fingers turn bone and my heart gives out.
as it would seem, in life, in the end, you are always left alone. this isnt the end but, i am alone. this is my fear. this is my haunting. i can not speak when i all cry to are deaf ears and clueless hearts and minds... i run.
it's playtime in the devils backyard. my angel visited me days ago and she must return to her place of being. now i play. i run through the ferocious land of what i have come to know all to well. this would be the home i have come to know and despise. maybe someday i will leave this hole in the wall. maybe someday she will join me in my playtime... my hell... my home. maybe she will keep me at her own.
I am told that "maybe you will realize that she is not all that you have built her up in your mind to be". well, i would be quite the fool to build up any human being as, we are not to be built up. i understand, i know what i have learned, i know what i see in movement, speech, and the frighteningly beautiful eyes of her. this is what i grew to love so many lives ago. this is what i adore on this day.
i should write. i should release what is in my head. my writtings are good. i have an odd way of wording things... in a good way.
all i can think about or write about is you.
i am a mess.
what's it to you?
who go