My life like a paradox, one side consisting of millions of clocks, resembles all my fuck ups. I panic from the sight of them nowhere near a stop…
not stopping the constant mocking from the memories whispering in my ear
Is it even better when they stop? or will they’ve fucked up so much that they’ll have continued with constantly fucking my thoughts up? so now I also fear when they stop.
will I be able to forget the paradox, without fucking it up?
will I what I fear the most happen? meaning the endless nights of shaking and feeling to hot, almost like my body’s baking. reliving the memories of fuck ups.
as they roll across my eyes like a silent movie, making me focus on the faces of those I hurt.
their sadness in their eyes, that I know in the non-clock cover paradox, called reality, they just cover with a smile. they scare me..
scared is all I’ll ever be.
but cover ups don’t come with the paradox. they’re covered with their emotion thick as Nivea body lotion, making me watch in slow motion.
ending with my bed covered in more tears then the Arctic Ocean.
will the stopping make it. make it better, making me feel even more confident in that black leather. making all those fuck ups fill up my world as much as a bird and its left behind feather.
all together I wish I were more clever because we all know that fuck ups, makes that sweet life…arrive… never