Tear to me you cold, apathetic thing, who grows in the empty spaces of life You terrible thing, crooked with deformity, who breathes radiation You perfect thing, flawless in design
Tear to me you cold, apathetic thing,
who grows in the empty spaces
of life
You terrible thing, crooked with deformity,
who breathes radiation 
You perfect thing, flawless in design writing stories
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joshuasanders
joshuasanders Community member
Autoplay OFF   •   a year ago

Tear to me you cold, apathetic thing, who grows in the empty spaces of life You terrible thing, crooked with deformity, who breathes radiation You perfect thing, flawless in design

Fold me under your wing and breathe me a song  as notes of dead, whispering leaves  dance in stagger-form about us

Plant me in the rot of autumn  To grow by the rust-glow of a thousand setting suns  To bathe in the dance of rain  To dance to the rain-songs that patter against window panes and hiss from the neon glow of small-town midnights

Carry me free of self-conscious, critical thought  For to shrug off the hands of my family, and to kill my friends  That is the only true form of self-expression

To look in the glazed eyes of every passing stranger,  and see myself reflected in them,  and feel nothing

Oh, you nameless, brilliant thing  I name you  And with the form of your sound filling my mouth,  burning my throat,  rotting my teeth, I summon you  From the aching void of my burnt out mind, 

and by the only right not granted to me by the American God,  I summon you  Ours is the last rite of pagan history

Please, hear me  Under the miles of white-static that buzzes like flies  about the stink of my dead-meat brain  Please, hear me  Though my voice is but a gurgle of blood between coughing fits  Please, hear me  Please  I don't want to be alone

Alone, but for the angry thrashing of my dreams  Fragments of stories that come between my twitching limbs  and dull, sweat-drenched headaches  Less than fragments  Syllables of words, strewn in the mud,  that I search out and rinse off and piece together

Only to finish and find that the word is nonsense  Guttural gibberish that offends with its meaningless

I speak in the tongues of my own fucked up cult,  to an empty room  My sermon is plagiarized  A distorted version of better work  The voice of god, twisted and made dumb An echo of cliche, a copy of copycats, reflections reflected

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