spiralsinthedark

Cold Now Walking in on the scene it could have been a murder. If only it had been. It was godawful that day. Blood everywhere. Hell, there were chunks. She blew her brain out. Put the gun right between her own eyes, they say. Cold steel, right there. Were her fingers shaking when she pulled the trigger? Did she think about it first? How many times did she see herself standing there, facing the window, so her last sight could be the dirty, painful sky she never had hopes of reaching? Couldn't have been more often than I've now dreamt about that scene, her frail self holding the gun. Her cold hands no longer reaching for support, just an end.

"What, I have any sort of grace?"                  .scoff.   "Well, when I see you sleeping, I feel as if I've been graced by an angel.          Doesn't that count?" A special feeling spreads in my stomach, when you hold me like you do, close, I feel so close, and so warm,            Happy and loved.    "You're the graced one? I'd think the one  in complete peace,               should feel graced."        "To be the one to cause that,                       is a greater joy than you know."           Great, greater,    the greatest joy I know is your embrace,  the comfort and safety and           LOVE        

How much is one person allowed to take? I guess it depends on the give, I guess it depends on the need. How much strain am I supposed to take? Does that even matter to me? I'd guess not, the way I forget. How much is anyone allowed to wish? Am I allowed to wish for him? Am I allowed to wish for them? Can I even help, or is this all pointless? I sure hope it's not. Because I'm giving too much for that.

Why do i remember, so vividly, that we were good friends? Why do I wish, I hadn't done something very wrong? Oh, because I did. Because I lost someone that could've, very easily, been a best friend my entire life. How could I have let that slip? When did I? Why did I? Why am I fucking stupid?

For every light on at midnight, In that place called Chicago, There is a lonely soul Buried up to it's aura in paper work. Lost souls, like fireflies each night, lost souls, in forests, post-mortem. Each with a home, each all alone. Work takes precedence, a necessary attitude development? Why do they stay so late? Off at half past eight, now it's half past night. For every echoing foot step On those trash scorn sidewalks, There is a soul lost in A sea of florescent lighting.

Everything will be just fine, you're not just on my mind, you're here with me, i feel like, like this could stay, no, should stay. the world should stay as it is, fuck "a bit too warm" and a "bit too violent". Just now, I honestly don't care, I'm not out there. Nope, in fact, I'm here, with you, and everything is perfect, even if everything's not.

Life of the Party. You're the life of the party, chugging, hugging, humping, until the dead of night. But when do you start your life? All I ever hear of you, is drunken stories, and from you, drunken banter. You're an empty soul, without an empty home. What're you doing? Are you trying to forget, or trying to create something to remember? No one even knows your name, you're just the guy with the booze.