Bring the bookfair back!

These clothes are just clothes rags to keep me warm, not definitions.
Wouldn't that be nice.

It's "wha?t" 356 times a day.
Read SOMETHING. ANYTHING.

We are of a different caliber.  (class, sect, religion, region, dialect, background, lives, worlds,)
I'm just better than you. (but honestly I don't know that much)


Iwantmychildhoodback.&mymother&myfriends&alltheopinionsihadwhenIwas6.
What makes something write or wrong?

When did this become okay?


Sleep should be worshiped.
Drugs should be banished.
They just wanted to see what could be done with no outside knowledge. They wanted something pure. I can't blame them for that.

Mad science revels.
Bring the bookfair back.





And with it the idea of flying away in a peach.  He was on drugs too when he wrote that.

Luck and work, life and death.
Every time, I've come up short. but only within my hand, and not my poker face.

Don't give dust a place to settle and you'll never get tied down, but where on earth have you ever seen dust never have somewhere to settle?


© m.f. /Roxywaters  Mar. 2011

I'm completely misjudging this whole thing.

No one here can give you the advice your searching for.
No one here knows who you are.
You look in the mirror and know what your destined for.
You break the mirror because you can't see what it is.
When life becomes a series of slept with, could sleep with,  and would never fucking touch.
This bar is not your friend, it's a leech on your bank account.
None of these people care about your moral fiber.
They are all nothing. Cardboard copies. Mass produced thoughts and ideas.
It's when everything is fabricated and it all has to lead to something real.
You don't know your body.
You don't know your face.
And you sure as hell don't know him.
Every one has been taught what to say, taught how to act by different actors.
What's left but this small world after all?
It doesn't even matter how big it seems here, you can never get away from your fate, no matter how you change.
I am not you as you are not me and we are not all together.
This world is all made up and dreamed of and everyone was on drugs when they wrote what they did.

You never say the right things and that makes me hate you. 






You have no preference in anything and that makes me question why I'm still listening.
Perception is everything melted down to nothing and funneled through the meaningless.
It comes back through the other side in the face and nameless.
When you can't identify your self what else is left?
This is retaliation. This is ignorance. This is depression at it's finest.
This is me not giving up, being completely lost, ashamed, embarrassed, and vulnerable.
This is you saying what you never could.




© m.f. /Roxywaters  Mar. 2011