I have tried to write in my own firedim blue room, where the small lamp have exploded, 'cause its importance turned over the red. Now I sit in the plain darkness and write the words, that seem to have no other outlet, than to take me to the trip of insanity.
I keep the eye on and play out the role of visual witness - when you don't know how to live, why to let others suffer. Over and over again. But even Cobain won't make the bitterness better, only tempers and paints it roughly red. Blood, you sear on my lips. Blood, who still longs for you. Blood... you promise me to starve, you let me flee into the opposite direction, from where the wind blows me back. Blood...
Maybe... Maybe I am just naive?. Innocent for eternity. Clear and unspoiled. Lies and falseness!.
No one can be innocent, when intentionally involuntarily and involuntarily intentionally the soul is closing itself into bottomless void, and destroys everything who, what is embracing this lifeless breath. Knowing, that inbetween with itself, things get worse - one by one, step by step - though... this never reaches to it, never it cares of others.
Blood, come and stoke me into the new. Blood, he smiles on my wall, inbetween this gray mass, on that black-white photograph. Blood, he has gone 16 years ago, yet we still remember him. Blood, come and boil me into the new.
I still wait for this money, though money... is just a paper, yet with this paper I can buy my love, my desire, my passion - nicotin. My lungs have whitered and I can not keep up with this drought no longer. Hallucinations play melanholically stringed instruments and scream alongside with the piano - "Want, want, want, want!". Punk rock and grunge play chestris in the most deepest burrow, I still haven't gotten enough of 'em. Grunge have overpowered the punk, and the punk is gone. Long gone. And everyone, still try, still try to fill it with the old fire. Blood, you lie and deceive. He is dead, everything is dead, everything dies.
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