A/N: Midnight poetry. Tear it apart, please.
it's one of those days when the world's but a whirlpool,
sucking you in, and swallowing you like a cheap pill of paracetamol.
'cause no-one likes headaches and the world likes them less,
and it's giving me a migraine to listen to these broken thoughts everyday.
medicines don't cure migraines, they just remind you that you're so desperate
that you'd swallow the moon if it made you feel better.
mankind searches for purpose, ain't that purpose enough?
what's the purpose of purpose anyway?
mankind's always thinking, i swear he never stops;
if you've dreamed of being a mind-reader, be glad you ain't one.
there are too many thoughts flooding this world anyway.
and damn it all, why don't people ever stop thinking?
it's one of those days when i'm wheezing in perfume
and coughing out mottled blue-bottles in the sky.
watch them float and watch them leap until the heavens fall asleep
and then they'll scream because hell, we're in one heck of a mess anyway.
"this doesn't make sense!" they scream. "tell us what to do!
we've got shards of glass five-inches deep in the wall.
we're breaking down -- we're caught, in a web that's burning up
and burning down and carrying
our remains with it."
and i just shake my head because there's nothing i can do.
so you just live in your concrete castles and leave me be.
you shake out your heels and fluff up your hair,
you roam these wide cliff-sides and you pin them to paper.
you're satisfied with your shin-digs and your worldly affairs, and sometimes
i can't help but wonder, if really mankind has nothing to do.
and when you cause trouble -- oh man, you cause a lot of trouble --
you turn to me and blame me for all your troubles.
I feel gratified that you remember me, but could you stop all this noise?
'cause you can gulp down paracetamol but i only have you.
and i like these migraines less with every passing day.