On time

The business end of living...
Words are the explosions...
Ones that have no meaning...
There would be no time...
No time for contemplation...
The seconds need to be in their places...
Diviation is only for living...

Feedback the reverb

If I could lie without a liars face...
Would I be able to stand without skidding down the tracks...
Always searching for a simple cover to get to the next day...
There might be kind of secret about it that doesn't yell...
From hallways lined with empty brown bottles...
Something to beg for and the reason to wake again...
Facing another day as broken glass after saying "goodnight"...
Where in the mystery that doesn't stink of rank hate...
Sleeping to escape more of that limit...

The color is going out

As noir seems the norm, the dawn will break eventually.
But till the end the sickness, of darkness with it forever will hold.
And with any grit, life worth living will a simple scracht... one you can't bear to look at. For once, with the whole be a beat red all over.

A sweet little tale like a beautiful murder

Spent the better part of a decade chasing a stupid hope. Wasting time, money on a thing that wasn't ever sure, always with the faith of it being about timing, like it had to go right at some point.
Funny that now there is no right way to waiting for, none to speak of. So now there is the life, living like its cut down the bone, with a raw nerve exposed and always itching to look for another stupid waste