For

There is a strange chill in the air,

I think it's because you just walked into the room.

Something isn't right.

I can see,

Hear,

Taste,

Touch,

Smell.

Are you going to kill me now?

Yes?

Okay, let me get my make-up on first.

Waking up

Tomorrow you will wake up, and you will be you. Nothing would have changed and you will go on living, or dying. And if anything has changed, it will be over-shadowed by the fact that you are alive, or not. Either way, tomorrow will come.

You can go back to sleep, and find another tomorrow. Hide, and you will be seen.

And many tomorrows later there will be a man standing over you, piling dirt or ash or fire on you. And then there will be no more tomorrows.

I congratulate you. You are not phased.

Is that confidence in self?
Or because you don't understand?

From the highest places,
Wanting nothing.

I don't need you to understand;
Your insignificance in this is understated.
Look in the mirror
See?

Guilty apathy ebbs and flows,
Flows.
Again and again,
The endless, painful force of everything, something.

Spiraling? Anything?
Can you feel pain?
The spinning increases to a fever pitch.
Vomit splatters all over the ugly face of Reality.

Fuck off

What is

A rustling on the monitor
Anticipation of nothingness
Something.

Are you disappointed?
You expected the end
And didn't get it.
My sympathies.
What is it?

Why? Why not.

I don't want to answer anymore
Please, leave me be.

Thanks you.
What is, is.

Hazard

Can't stop. Go. Go. Go. There it is again.

Think about it. Again. The sound repeats. Oh my. What have we done?

I love you

A flash of lightning.
Then nothing.
A promise made...
But not kept?

Clock on the wall tells you when.
A day in the history of tomorrows;
As inconsequential as you.
Mindless lyrics to no tune
Word after word,
Like the broken ticket-machine at the train station,
Meaningless.

What is there in tomorrow?
A dream;
Unfulfilled? Broken?
Nothing. Not quite nothing.
Pieces of broken mirror
A ridiculous jig-saw puzzle
In each, a piece of you.
Each is separate
No one bothers to put it together
Fantastical thoughts go in and out of an otherwise crammed mind.

Something is wrong.
Or finally right.
A diamond in the rough.
Metaphor to describe a metaphor.
Imperfection, given meaning.

The clock still watches you.
You don't look as it counts down the seconds
To an end
To a beginning.

Learning for the sake of it,
Freedom from oppression.

Someone is at the gate,
Asking to be let in.
I won't answer;
Familiarity doesn't rear its ugly head.

Random numbers appear
They count themselves...you.

Everything goes blank.

How much further?

The sad, profound meaning things never really seem to sink in enough. Always the nagging splinter that itches its way into your thought. They call. The irritating call of "them".

Fuck off. I don't want to talk to you.