Spitting Out The Demons
Thursday 5th April 2012 11:54 am
Talk to me, I know you're dying to speak,
To pick apart your brains until you feel half way complete,
Eating all these pills until the secrets leak,
From your brain to your mouth and you're spitting demons in your sleep.
The weed and beer couldn't ever save us,
But as if it would cushion our fall we chased the buzz,
Two sides of one argument, "well you shouldn't", "well you should",
Left us high and dry, our minds dripping the blood.
What excuse can you give?
For the scars on your soul,
What kind of ignorance in you lives?
To think that death is just something that happens when we become old.
We are a separation of mind and matter,
Utter impossibilities that fill spaces on dark mornings and in the latter,
We remain unable to speak to those we want to speak to the most,
Time in our wake, ever chasing us into the ghost
Of all we are,
Like as if death dissolves everything we had,
And nothing is needed,
And nothing is new fad.
Here's where you realise that fucking with no amount of narcotics can save you
From looking into a mirror and seeing mortality,
Impermanence and a ticking clock,
Maybe you feel yourself die, and maybe not.
We all find out in the end.