to my dearest whom my soul yearns to die for,
psychotic and toxic my soul lay naked to vulnerable thorns of days we died,
shaken by external lavar,
i know we burn as one,
like paint games in extreme chills,
hell and heaven our dual friends,
they stay at opposite sides,
as now seems as end,
when only sunday we began….
intoxicated by after life on shamballa shores,
these nights are strange… as December,
a hollow celebration…
the blame game…our less smiles gag,
i hate you, i love you,
i am confused by poles of ends cornered;
magnetic pulls to the deep side of misery…
we are our misery..
like the spills of moments lost,
its all bad…is this it?
the day before Monday,
the day i slit your soul and hope you die with me,
tragic i see the cliff…
and hope we float,
like odd days before shapes,
before age and hasty nows and never,
obliged by floating fever,
we are sick together,
such a dark virus called love promised us worst days,
we are our worst,
pulling at ends hoping to die in the winter….
but here we are on the floor dying….