Monday, February 18, 2008

Lunch with Dead Presidents

When I get insomnia or anxiety. Both.
I try to sleep or I am sleeping, but I am awake.
something isn't right. I am not sure what it is. I have different ghosts that follow me
like shadows. I have 10,000 I am sorrys to say.
I have a shovel and dug a grave for my regret to heave into.
I stay clear of my enemy remorse and if I stay up for a certain amount of days, a certain amount of hours. They say time heals.
I seem to forgive myself.

I live the same way as you.
In the night I get up and with the same clothes I wore to bed
I head out to the Super Walmart because it is open all night.
Just driving over I start to feel a calm wash over me.
Like going to the Dr. when you are sick. All of a sudden you feel great right before you get there.
At the office you are sitting there. Thinking. I caused this. I should have slept. My back hurts.
It wasnt adverse side-effects from medications. It wasn't acute allergic reaction. It wasn't
that I couldnt breathe or my throat was really closing. It wasn't aids, or bird-flu, I don't have this mysterious cough anymore. How odd. Mind control. Are you losing it?

There are strange people here at this time of night. People like me. There is a comfort we now share. Never really sleeping, Never really awake. Images flicker before you like Fight Club. like bad porn. which used to work but now only makes me sad.

Would I have the strength to fight? Somebody other than myself. The courage to rub myself until I cum. Knowing that void. Knowing that if I called her. If at the right time she would ask me to come over. That she says she knows what I need. And isnt it strange that when I call she to is wide awake.

If I pretend to be sick. If I fake my way through it all. Could I finally get some sleep.
When I was with her. Did she think I was sleeping? Did she think she had fucked me to sleep?

I closed my eyes but I wasnt asleep. Dick still sticky with scent of cunt. sweat dried and heart racing.
I have pills for that now. The racing heart. For the start, the stop. The everything.

But what i need, what I really need is to be walking down aisles under flourescent lights. To get away from here. From you. From her. From me. What I need Is a song without her name attached. My 5 minutes of fame before the flame goes out. New energy. A muse to write for. heart-attacks. Notebooks written in and then stolen. The ability to breathe under water. Her. Under me. Her. over me. The grind. The work. The money. We had meaning. We all have this hope and dread that we aren't really going to die and we are not really going to live.
Notice me. I want to find you and slip away.

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