From the Edges


Nostalgia,
it can rip your heart away.
Nostalgia,
it points the way to your grave.
Every lie I ever told was true,
like all the smiles I fake for you.
Cemented guilt,
my layers of achievements’ truth.

Paranoia,
it puts the blood upon your mouth.
Paranoia,
it’s washed upon the ground.
Creases cut into a romantic brain.
We spiral down.
We asphyxiate.
Romanticize a prayer
I forgot to pray.

Cannibal JonesMoving

◄ Wednesday

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