I hate it, all the glozing lies and dying crystal-like sea inside. Baleful smile, anger that turns everything red with gore, hurtful lines of an antique ball-point pen, like a falling horse, point meekly at my heart.
Peeled apple skies, happiness, sadness, happy or sad, you asked me if I was angry or sad or both, it's both, I am sick, I am very sick. Sometimes I feel like a bug with its war paint, other times a pallid colored battery, a delicate genius and a lost accent. I never sleep but when I finally do; I will lay dead like a Saint.