Haven't I had enough.
They all pretend to know what they are talking about. Assured faces crumbling like burnt paper. Haven't I had enough. It's strange when you realize that putting your head on someone's lap and then just looking at birds in the sky can be so exhilarating.
At times I want to rip some cables, cop some wires..add in a few a severed copper bits. I wish I could just let go, and let it rip. But these rips of mine, well at least let me call them that are never more than a few centimeters across. A mosquito's bite is more lethal than that. A pocket that echo's like the inside of a skull.
I wonder what it would have been had I been born some other day.
Maybe one day I shall just kill myself.
A fancy death too, dying in a bath of kerosenes that is lit.
Ugh! Mosquitos.
If I walked through a street,
a street in a black and white memory,
the kind that has rusted with age,
I wonder, would I look to my sides?
Look at windows that bleed in the darkness
And empty rooms that stink off rotting thought.
Would I look at the rooms where coins jingle merrily
as a soul is raped under the gaze of my salivating brothers.
Or would I want to burn this memory,
that festers like a sore on the underside of my foot?
My thoughts are interrupted,
I hear a voice say, "Does it hurt?"
Does it?
