murighonto

i could, but i isn't. stories of a constantly-pained individual.

4/21/2010 11:39:00 AM

full frontal

Posted by phish


The promises to self have been broken. The self-afflicted wounds have turned to scabs. The saturation is at it's velvety wettest. The days pass by swift and uneasy with every move of the celestial cog. The restless mind still seek the comforts of a past routine. Lungs collapse and then rise again in habituated boredom. The heart pumps relentless.

The machine has been turned on for thirty years. And it continues to grind through space and time. Producing nothing but a continuous deep and mournful grating sound.

4 comments:

SummerDiary said...

[happy] birthday?!

Mystique said...

happy birthday. Or not.

Tamara said...

Lovely melancholy.

Pooja Nair said...

Melancholy is the word!