westid

i’m not burning up, i’m not breaking down. i’ve invested so much of myself in this town. there are some things i regret yeah, lots of people do. but you don’t have the cojones to send yourself what i’ve been through. i can only hope that being pulled apart gives you the freedom to finish what you start. it’s real depressing to think that you don’t have the heart, to give me the formidable presence that promises to give as good as it gets, witch who will cast a spell on you as part of some dark feminine ritual art

i can’t sit here and wait forever and not be tired by waiting, but i’m not the indefatigable machine like the devious clockwork going on behind your evil blue eyes. i’d love to cut that ego down to size. i’ll stop being the intrigue on which it relies. i’m not selfish but i can’t be the only one that tries. a shame i wasted 8 week on a promise that was all lies. but i wouldn’t come down too hard on an act of redemption that brings justice endwise to that means of a look in your eyes

contemplative, i’m the dark wizard with one or two spells of my own goin down, don’t fuck with me. all my problems will disappear like it’s magic, it’ll be tragic. defying all logic. i can perceive the links you bind onto me manipulating my will with a promise or a pill, ethereal plain, denial anxiety and pain, i can see. like i see it in your eyes at times, well when you have indiscriminately graced when you spend all that time living up to anything and everything else disproportionately hurried away because anything else towards, your gait and how it is paced. i came from nowhere until you went so just the same i will vanish without a trace

i’ve got a sickness and it’s called love. it’s the only reason for all this, i know. if there’s a cure for this i don’t want it. to be in deep and feeling it get worse and worse is the allure of this curse and you won’t be able to escape from the feeling no matter how long i’ve got to be persistent, insistent on the ties tightening and a blast of fork lightning for your trouble, who says it’s a bad thing being so nice such that i finish last. last man standing, i’m never coming first

flying through the darkness riding, a black bolt of badly load bearing dynamite, i will pick you up take you into the corona of the moon and we will supersonic thunder through the beautifully still occuring natural light of the soul piercing magic on this here summer time saturday night

you wouldn’t think that it was a born-again god fearing christian philanthropic man who gave me the passion with which i live what i write