drive the nails,
there was a strength
but it seems to be my nature to find
cracks in the gold.
high on the blindside,
baring spider bites
that leak into my lack of routine.
i don't want to talk,
the real world is weakening.
so with rattled nerves and tired words,
i soldier on.
this is a testimony
of tiny devils in the way.
an imperfect picture
shaped in imaginary eyes.
a standstill cursed
to waste through wires.
when fooling yourself becomes an addiction,
there's no way out.
i'm not dead,
but my dreams are draped in pine.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
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