I’m swirling these words like they’re circling a drain – or better yet, the porcelain, bleach-clean shit place in my head.
If only I could pull these ideas out of their downward spiral, their terminal velocity toward the unknown…well, that’s false. I know exactly where they end up: in the stagnant, frozen, motionless, decaying person trapped inside my decaying brain.
This is my brain on drugs.
This is my brain on alcohol.
I’ll take the pockmarks in exchange for the good times; I’ll take dementia for my friends, and our drunken blackout nights.
So if I feel these concepts so strong they bring me to tears, if my drama consumes me: give me the fucking words to say it, don’t let me swirl around with the words I’ve discarded.
I’m shitting out clichés just as fast as my heroes write them better,
I’m waffling back and forth while they go for the gold.
Go spoil yourself for being so goddamned inspired,
And I’ll just sit on my see-saw with my finger up my nose.
I’m just as tortured, so give me the notes! I want the easy way out; break the box but keep it cool; mix my own brand of normalcy with a dash of uncertainty.
If you are all great, then I’m a fucking god.
This one is HEAVY! But still plenty playful and I like that! I have an odd love of clean toilets... It's an image I'm really fond of so the mixture of porcelain and bleach-clean not only sounds nice but resonates well for me! "Pockmarks in exchange for good times" is really interesting. I wouldn't have thought to use the word "pockmark." Taking dementia for your friends is interesting too... And the ending is just filled with all sorts of grim, defiant images that make me smirk. Particularly shitting cliches and sitting on a see-saw with a finger up your nose. So funny for such a dark piece!
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