Shut Up
Revolver
My birthplace was an asylum...in the several years that followed I found out that my family were all patients with the same disease.
I then graduated from primary school and moved on top of the Empire State Building, from where I could yell at the hyaloid people bellow that they needed a revolver to gain some color, red or black if they were demonic enough.
From there, I descended to a cramped up apartment where I was free from pigeons' discolored excrements but not from myself. Dreaming a life and living a dream that, in reality, I wasn't alone.
But my pathetic existence was redirected to a less self-destructive route: I recieved a partner.
Yeah, sure, he was so much more self-destructive than I was, but we were each other's aid and that was why I considered him the best loan life gave me.
I fell almost absentmindely from his embrace and my brother caught me in his rough arms and smiled his bitter smile that never reached the degree of comfort my partner in misery reached with each breath.
And this partition from my drug, my love, my air, it just erected this ridiculously tall wall between me and the rest of the world.
It's okay, though, because I know that after 9 months I'll be reunited with him. I know because I can sense his breathing coming from the amniotic sac next my own and he touches my little digits from time to time, being, perhaps, just as curious about me as I am about him.
My brother fits through the gaps between each scarlet-colored brick, but he rarely visits, as if he's ashamed that his sibling detached herself from reality and lives like a shadow.
And now, after seing him after almost three months of wallowing in self-pity and living in the same solitude I lived in when I was a kid, he is just as much of a shadow as I am...
You've turned bleak as my life without my soul...
It's good, maybe, that these police officers gave you a revolver to color it red again...
I then graduated from primary school and moved on top of the Empire State Building, from where I could yell at the hyaloid people bellow that they needed a revolver to gain some color, red or black if they were demonic enough.
From there, I descended to a cramped up apartment where I was free from pigeons' discolored excrements but not from myself. Dreaming a life and living a dream that, in reality, I wasn't alone.
But my pathetic existence was redirected to a less self-destructive route: I recieved a partner.
Yeah, sure, he was so much more self-destructive than I was, but we were each other's aid and that was why I considered him the best loan life gave me.
I fell almost absentmindely from his embrace and my brother caught me in his rough arms and smiled his bitter smile that never reached the degree of comfort my partner in misery reached with each breath.
And this partition from my drug, my love, my air, it just erected this ridiculously tall wall between me and the rest of the world.
It's okay, though, because I know that after 9 months I'll be reunited with him. I know because I can sense his breathing coming from the amniotic sac next my own and he touches my little digits from time to time, being, perhaps, just as curious about me as I am about him.
My brother fits through the gaps between each scarlet-colored brick, but he rarely visits, as if he's ashamed that his sibling detached herself from reality and lives like a shadow.
And now, after seing him after almost three months of wallowing in self-pity and living in the same solitude I lived in when I was a kid, he is just as much of a shadow as I am...
You've turned bleak as my life without my soul...
It's good, maybe, that these police officers gave you a revolver to color it red again...