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Friday, March 09, 2007

the beat that my heart skipped.
spinning: don't cry by guns n roses.

Do we both have that much pride, or am I just another one of your fleeting art pieces? The one with thin crossed lines and quick splashes of paint perhaps? Why am I psychotically piling on the fantasies despite each wave of the cold realization of what cannot be? Hasn't reality already sunk them? Why play games with my own mind? Time to get rid of this foolish foolish infatuation. You're in my thoughts at the break of both dawn and dusk, blurring the line between what's real and what's not within the labyrinth of my heart. Maybe painting you into prose may bleed you out of my veins. So long.




11:17 PM