Like a cat, with nine lives, over and over he lives, one must think its a joke, or that it isn't fair, but we all do my dear, they just run towards the grinding metal and wispy strings. The lives are stolen, pieces of life, stolen. I could get them back. But the past, just...too painfuly wonderful. I've but one withering life left. Hanging to me with a string. And slowly seeping out my toe-tips is my soul. Looking for some sturdier ground to grasp to.
"My life is in shambles,"
he would just look at me,
"I've gotta get it back together."
"Just drown it out with some music...you'll find your way"
it was a one way street and I was charging down it hoping to find something good
"I give up."
I grew my hair out, took the drugs, and listened to the music. I was finally listening to him, to the world, and I don't regret it one bit.
(A humid incense filled room,where I frequently had s*x with anyone, where I was painted head to toe, where some of the strangest and influential things happened. Anything from anywhere was written on those walls. The good and bad, truths and known falsehoods...and on and on and on, that room, oh that room, has soooo many of my lives.That color, is all it takes to slip me into a coma of rainbow colored ecstasy. Dreaming and drifting into what I think might be my death or just one of many little deaths, that were probably the happier moments of my life.)
Now in the mornings I put on my black winter coat, venture into the smokey city, and walk to the park. I often find myself on a bench there. Sprinkling food about for the pigeons. I'm that old woman, without the talking to the birds. And I don't mind at all. Because tomorrow while I sit on that bench Death will come, playing me a song that takes me back to the room. Where I may give up my last life.
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He knows the notes that ring in my head.
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