I woke up at midnight from some much needed sleep to a riot out my window.
I went outside and smoked a cigarette and realized I was just being over dramatic again.
I think it's because I'm not living up to my potential, or whatever it is they say in movies that makes you think.
I just want to write happy songs about how much I hate you, or sad songs about how much I hate myself, then everyone would sing along and love me or hate me and I'd be out there existing in multiple forms at multiple times apart of multiple peoples lives, experiences, moments.
Now that's something when you think about it.
But I can't sing, but I don't think that's really what it's all about anyway.
You're an idiot and the evidence of it is all over the fucking place. It's here and there and everywhere. People standing pointing at you, calling you an idiot, your friends behind your back... I never met them. I never met anyone that you knew. Anyway, then there's me. And I definitely think your an idiot in the most idiotic ways of all time possible. Then it's there, looking me in the face...
My discretion is what kills it in the end.
And there you have it.
You ruined another one.
Without even trying.
Like a kaleidoscope I change and morph these thoughts again into nothing and no one and nothing and back again.
All that's here now is me, these four walls and all the colored paper I've smothered them with.
Then it all fades away.
It's 6:06 am and I have no idea what the fuck I'm doing.
© m.f. /Roxywaters Nov. 2012
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