toking
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"long slow paths" toking
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Jun 15 20:00 UTC 1999 |
it's not like it hurts when the blade traces long slow paths down your
skin, it's really more like release, or parole, something so close, so
fucking close to freedom, that it just doesn't matter that you've locked
yourself behind thincker and stroner bars. It's not like it hurts when
the red starts welling up and flowing off your skin, dripping deep
bright red stains on any surface that you guiltily walk acroos until you
can fin a place to hide inside of the silene thats been building around
you since you were six years old. It's your silence damnit, and not even
blood falling in slow motion to splatter small droplets across clean
linoleum can break this silence, no sound escapes, no matter how minute.
This is your prison, and as long as you can imagine that there's fresh
air and warm sunshine, who's to tell you different! It's not like it
hurts, not anymore, not like it used to, not like it will years from now
when you look back at all of this and realize what a joke this all was.
Until then, hold your bars close, closer closer, closer, snap!
No...you're not free, but you can pretend just like me, and we can play
and twist and run until everything stops. It's not like it hurts when
everything comes to a screeching halt, we've all been here before, and
the halt isn't so jarring when you learn to read it's coming in the
small frown lines of a loved ones troubled brow. You learn exactly what
that crease 3/4 of an inch to the right of the third eyes means. It
means good bye, good bye still hurts, but not so bad as it will years
from now when you look back and realize what a fucking game we've been
playing.it's not like it hurts when the blade traces long slow paths
down your skin, it's really something more like realizing that when it
comes right down to it, there's not much out there that'll break you
outta this cell, and all you have are pretty thoughts that you're pretty
sure tell you exactly what it's like to sit in a warm summer breeze or
to look up into the sky, open your mouth, and catch one refreshing drop
of bitter smog polluted rain water on the tip of your tounge.
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toking
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response 3 of 6:
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Jun 16 13:57 UTC 1999 |
(rewritten when I hadn't been awake for thirty+ hours)
"Long slow paths" mark2
it's not like it hurts
when the blade traces long slow paths
down your skin,
it's really more like release,
or parole,
something just so close,
so fucking close to freedom,
that it just doesn't matter
that you've locked yourself
behind thicker, stronger bars.
It's not like it hurts
when the red starts welling up
and flowing off your skin,
dripping deep bright red stains
on any surface
that you guiltily walk across
until you can find a place
to hide inside of the silence
thats been building around you
since you were six years old.
It's your silence damnit,
and not even blood falling
in slow motion to splatter
small droplets
across clean linoleum
can break this silence,
no sound escapes,
no matter how minute.
This is your prison,
and as long as you can,
imagine that there's fresh air
and warm sunshine.
It's not like it hurts,
not anymore,
not like it used to,
not like it will years from now
when you look back at all of this
and realize what a joke this all was.
Until then, hold your bars close,
closer, closer, closer, snap!
No...you're not free,
but you can pretend
just like me,
and we can play and twist and run
until everything stops.
It's not like it hurts
when everything comes to a screeching halt,
we've all been here before,
and the halt isn't so jarring
when you learn to read it's coming
in the small frown lines
of a loved ones troubled brow.
You learn exactly what that crease
3/4 of an inch to the right
of the third eye means.
It means good bye,
good bye still hurts,
but not so bad as it will years from now
when you look back and realize
what a fucking game we've been playing.
it's not like it hurts
when the blade traces long slow paths
down your skin,
it's really something more
like realizing that when it comes
right down to it,
there's not much out there
that'll break you outta this cell,
and all you have are pretty thoughts
that you're pretty sure
tell you exactly what it's like
to sit in a warm summer breeze
or to look up into the sky,
open your mouth,
and catch one refreshing drop
of bitter smog polluted rain water
on the tip of your tounge.
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jshafer
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response 5 of 6:
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Jun 20 02:29 UTC 1999 |
Hmm, I liked the second one better. When I read the first one, without line
breaks or anything, it felt rushed, almost frantic. This version seems more
detached, and it seems to build better. Either way I like it, and agree on
that last phrase...
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