taBOO CrewClit-clack, clit-clack, went the spray can as I shook it. Pop! The top came off and into my pocket, I gripped the can as tightly in my hand as my resperator was strapped to my face. I pushed down on the nozzle and out came a spray of black particles that collected into a whole as they assembled together on the wall. Even with the resperator on, the faint smell of not quite alive, yet not quite dead seeped into my eyes and swirled around in my senses. The smell of fresh black paint and dieing brain cells, sweet and sharp shooting through my lungs into my blood, coarsing in every fiber of my body. And my hand moves up and down, curves and swirls. Stop - next letter, and now the smells and tastes, they intensify and now my adrenaline begins to show and my stomach tingles and my hands jitter with warm spirts of anticipation. Then just when I get to love this, the feeling is like bliss, "Done!" I shout, time to move to the next wall and it's there that the feeling, will come again.
IntercourseCameAnd comeIt drools outOf the mouth of the river.From the head it shoots,IntoMaternal, a lake made of loveOr maybe lustYet the feelingMakes it both the same.The soldiers,Dressed in whiteStumble amongst their new homeWadded deep in the waters of the lakeAssembled they march in search,Of the seed.The lake,It splits,Into two streamsAnd the armadaOf swimming menDiverge,Half to leftThe others to the right.Half will die,The rest will find,But only one will,Fertilize.
Sometimes I Should've DiedSo long, it's been so far away,It makes me feel so bad,Should I feel guiltyShould I feel sadAnd are these tears without meaning?Or are they sweet?Filled with insperation and sweet depressionAs my tears role,My tingles flowIt feels like ecstasy,I never want this swoon to endThe tingling, the turning and feeling of blissAnd today,I know,I,Have found heavenHeaven or Hell?It doesn't really matter,This feeling keeps me aliveKeeps me moving and changingAnd always wanting moreMore tears and more tinglingSweet sweet depressionIt's my catalystSometimes my depression is me and I am my depressionI create it and want itBut why?Why, why, why?Why is this feeling so great?Why do I crave it?Depression seems to be my anti-drugIt makes my legs,Muscles weakI can't think and feel consumed,It's hard to see what's realAnd why don't I stop?It's addicting,The feelingThe emptinessThe insperationAnd longing for a purposeSo that's it?I suppose I never really was goneI n
My Clock Says . . . Thirteen?A wait, such a waitWish, wanting, insperationFeeling lost, drowning, falling-EmptyHate this feelingFeeling of ntohingEmptyWhat's there to do?To fill the voidThe emptySeeming as though there is no way,Nothing here, but everything I haveSo what does that mean?Do I spiral in my every-nothingTime is the only holder to tell
The Story of My LifeI feel just like a story rhymeOnce upon a time and happy ever afterAnd in between, all it is, is timeWe all wish it could be filled with laughterWhen all you've done is soaked in lime . . .