Hudson

Not sure how I feel about this one.


The supple grip of sinking waters
The cold, cold grip of icy fathers
The call of cigarettes and lighters


The matches I light beneath my burning hand
I cannot break free of this cycle that I cannot comprehend
My mind is chained to a physical form
Everything I see I detest
The disgusting human flesh

LED flashes in my positronic brain
A purple scent drifts behind my eyes
Flashes of a black and white face

The destruction of a map
So I cannot return to this place

Torn like paper are my paper-thin walls
Obvious has replaced the irony
I cannot give what I do not have
And I could not give a damn

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

There is no such thing as "racism"

The Razor

Spy vs. Spy

The Two Seperate Categories of Evil and Ken Jennings