puking and drunk on soberness

blueintheface

I cant stop this hand from writing, I wish I had a dam, to regulate the water of my ideas from getting to my brain. I wish to met you north of the southside, but not quite the north side, and not quite the middle. A radio blasts in the open field of my yawning mouth and separate good from evil with my good natured tonsils. Behind my eyes sits simply neurons and veins, but behind them sit an organ, lost in the trail of time. The problem with our society is that we have love to know the right time, but never understand what time means. And we don’t know the right way to live either, it’s a secret, passed on to a certain few, and we feel jealous without even knowing it. The machine my life runs on is spewing out its parts, and they look to be heading into the Lake of Excellence or the Sea of Rewards. But they miss and hit the dunes, t he sandbars that only exist because of the lake which only exists because of some strange theory which seemingly only exists because of some crazed monk. I do not believe in earth, nor do I buy gravity, and I pretend to not know about the laws that govern me and my body. Instead, I faithfully push on my boat out into the middle of the ocean, never knowing of a sentiment or destination. A breakdown is when the wax from your candle brain gets too hot, and it burns thorugh the wall which you spend 15 years building, only to have it knocked down by a girl. I speak to my wall. He is a good friend. I will be sad to part with it someday.