I speak the truth, it is not always kind, and I am not sorry. But there is more to the spaces screaming of what I do not speak. It is another story here, another one in my clenched fists, and yet another in what I do. I write to empty my skull, put down issues so they won't paralyse me. I write to remember because I can not stand the thought of forgetting the all I have seen, the all I have heard. I wish never to forget but to shine in the afterglow of my words. I wish for many things. Nicest things.
Yes, it might be about you, but is for me.
Give me a cigarette, for what I wrote last is vulnerable in my head. Its what makes me weak. It is not what I said. Touch me to hear me. Kiss me behind my knees, its what makes my legs run. Its what makes me strong. I spilled the words and now my fingers are too wide apart to collect them and put them back in the safety of my left front lobe. Go on pretending I never thought of it, ever. Keeping my issues strong too.
It is another story of my smile. Of the dinosaurs's and gardens in my head. Old fashion movies, is just the piece of me. It is another story of my eyes that are the greenest springs and fear what they cannot see. It is another story of how I found strength to get up the eighth time and commit the nine crimes. But that doesn't define me. We all make mistakes. We are all made of the same stuff, the same stars.
It is what you want to hear. What you want to see. I cannot blame you for it, or judge your invalid cinema of ridicule your shows for I didn't feel anything when attended to what you wanted me to see.
It is the connection when all is quite. Can you sit alone with yourself? Can you sit in silence with me forever ago and know what I am feeling, behind the noise of what we might say? Words can hurt. Don't make me cry, make me laugh. Touch me to hear me.
Can I really explain? I try, I try, everyday. It is never the whole truth, it will never be.
Maybe this all doesn't make sense, doesn't mean anything. Fuck you, they are MY words and I will never stop!
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