Garbage
8:55 p.m.//09.13.04

Romanticism through the glass

Too many pills

I drag my face along the surface

That seperates us

As I close my eyes

And picture better days

I knew nothing

I can't write to you

To pretend that I have the words

To never do any justice

It's horror

So many things to say

Nothing to say

The sound of my own breath

It's deafening

To slay the child

Sometimes I wish

But often desire

For you

What will kill me next

Has killed me all along

Myself

In a windowed world

Where I have no eyes

Nor any arms

And I drag and drag and drag

These words

Useless

Because they mean nothing

And these ghosts will never leave

By my own will

Accomplishment void

I'm sick of not knowing you

Random orbs of thought

And why not now

Tomorrow seems so drab

As if I knew

[messeges]
[them]
[mistakes]
[current]