another fucking one.

 another fucking one.

another chunder of words,

like today's music i no longer listen to

like Rishi's bullshit

another episode.

another blackout, a sky without stars

another night turning into day

another parasitical mental sciatica

she cries, laughs, whispers, shouts, 

screams, breathes, fucks, lives

like me.

down the hole where Layne Staley is still singing

only to me

sitting with the spirits that claim me.

this is a wonderful world

so thin the line to the other side

parallel realities

wrongly wired circuits from

wrongly drafted diagrams to begin with

maybe the wonderful world is all about

creating it new from the mistakes

maybe it just is without mistakes

when does the line shift like tectonic plates

when does the line ever stay solid?

when will i learn to stay behind it

and when i do, am i in the right reality?

the rain pours to the left

and i let myself sway with it

damp, this mind

it collects water

and weighs heavy on my shoulders

holding words that refuse to leave my tearducts

for relief

this mind i called my own

i am the last tenner in a wallet

i am the dust in tobacco pouches

i am the last sip of Jack Daniels

i am the last lickable contents of a bag

i am the hollow inside you.

manchester days

how they fill me with a certain void sometimes

it feels like home

i am genuinely happy here i think

but sometimes

i get lost in all the grey.

she knows the roads and shortcuts well

she knows this city like the back of his hand

until today i still refer to myself in third person

when i am not very proud of the things i have done

it is easier to go through the judgment

the heavy sorrow

the scars i build 

that tattoos cannot cover

the wounds that piercings cannot fill

she looks at me

and i paint her eyes

to hide the shadows behind them.