Bloody Slumber and feeling good inside
Now. what is it that I'm feeling, when. it's mixed with my identity, am. i burning fags like a metaphor, in. the constant never was repetition, can. i mix in beautiful metaphors on hate, is it. a coil in a bulb about to burst, and me the blackened explosion, penting up the lions in my cage of indiscretion, does it. stab me in an alleyway of brick and mortar painted with grafiti. while colored men with bandanas gain courage in groups. to shove that shank inside my stomach, i'll be. given an epitath to call them in an outhouse. where fags go to fuck, or it. could be jokes i hate, the spoons. on bottom with lisps, while i'm necessary but rejected, like a nuclear plant after the sun dissapeared, and. they're circuits but I'm the juice, switched on and off, for need, it's not emotional this connection, it's necessity of thrusting.
Now what is it that I'm feeling, the whisper in my ear of ghosts who left by themselves. on a day no one thought would shock us into caring, but not alarming enough. my own departure. or . the qualities you say I have when i reach out for not salvation but common place dining, while the food we eat is bland or if it's not we spoil the meat, cause. the similarities stop with the size of my cock, the rest is just hollow. or demands that i stop doing what i never could myself, another you to tell me what to wear, and think, and put inside me, though i have myself i lose it when i stop the isolation. and everything feels like a premonition. I've been here before in yesterday reflected in the mirror, so now i fear the light for i am in the dark, some dykes have blocked my water in my mind of an opinnion, for simplicity sake I'm not gay, for I wear straight clothes and won't be woman.
Now what is it that I'm feeling, back home we're regressing into crime think of power, to top the tops with violence and respect our own destruction, trying too little to absorb into the blob we call ourselves though I've never been one for amorphous horror movies, just reaching into cyberspace for understanding not advice, i blame no one but myself, for it is repeated to me always, you can't love anyone if you don't love yourself, then love is non-existant, all you do is shield it and i can't let it hide,
Now what is it that I'm feeling, or is it what i thought this time. or yesteryears, affirming my joy in faked smiles, just so someone will talk to me and treat me like i'm real, but closeted in so many ways. i hibernate in caves, and is it isolation again or failed attempts to connect, the extremos call me chauvinist but professors mark me well in classes of the woman question, i've stradled this line between suicide, aquiescence, and a psychosis of progress, is the feeling that i want to change but can't trust my mind to know just what it is i want to be or if it's just a memory of what i wanted when I was sane. the feeling is remorse, regret, hatred, pain, defeat, fear, terror and in the heart of a man(can I call myself that or is it just my groin) i'm not good enough for them. in the eyes of woman i'm oppresion given form. in the eyes of homos i'm the necessary cock. in the eyes of loving i'm a hatred filled machine. in the eyes of society i just won't believe. in the eyes of god i know i'll be forgiven. cuse i try to be better than what i feel and fail. yet stand up and try again. knowing i'll fall down again. again again again again.
please try to see through yourself and feel the good inside.