sometimes being half the man you used to be is better than being none at all. the things we like to say appear only on our dreams and it stays in the subconcious.
bragging about it only gets you half the way and other half is taking it back. im ripped. like a torn paper towel. trashed in every way and not reused by somebody else.
sickening. a waste. too much would i do to try to save any part of me that i can. but its too late; im too close to paraiso to go back. i need to go on. ive moved on.
i have nothing to lose so why not just lose myself? it is too daring to do...kind of reminds me of old times when we where lost in deep thought hoping never to return.
smiling pictures of your blank face....i laugh and ask myself who the hell she was, who the hell am i, who the hell am i....
sometime that pretty little mask you put on (THE MASK OF THE SORROW!!!) made me think i was vincible. no not anymyre. now, as my hair flows throught the breeze of the mornings early blow i yawn and sleep on believing that one day i will be free and clean. clean from the infection of an early adulthood in my childhood. clean as a whistle that makes no sense. embedded, intertwined, in the mind, in the shade of the day. well thats how its described in the good book. but the bad book is good too.
i wish that i was a fish that could fish and be clean like a dish.
i
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