Envelope

I think we've been here before
but you're never sure,
you're never sure for long,
sawdust and plaster draws,
a pleasant smell not so far
from the distinguished doors we are,
I'm ripping out studs and floors,
correcting flawless arrhythmia,
i swore i saw you before,
this cadaver moves, and now I'm not so sure
wring a fragile wing clean
drenched by sweating lungs,
is it pure i said was it pure enough,
dead thoughts are creeping in,
rocking back and forth,
did you always know for sure,

drew something gorgeous
like dying torches
faded and soon i was persuaded
to forget,
I've been dodging paper bullets for too long,
moving back and forth like the ridges of a bottle cap,
sharp then dull,
driven through an empty skull,
with no real incentive to learn or burn

what has come of all my fear
but understanding of my hate
and what has come of all my hate
but understanding of my love
and what has come of all my love
but understanding of my fear,
and nothing has come of fear
but hectic actions

my fountain of good deeds has dried up
and it is the least i could do,
to keep a good moment last,
i chose a pinprick life,
loved it rustic,
feel like a string of lights
with a few bulbs busted
and a few wires rusted,
oh well, apparently I'm not well
says the med student and the psychic
but I never really listened to a word ..
thought the tones resembled shades of red,
which reminds me of a day where only my fingers moved,
i fumbled a cherry stem between my aching appendages,
and i never thought about deceit or receipts,
or rage or grades,
reserved a burst or two
of maliciousness
for the falling sun
some sleep to clear a head,
instead i found an empty seat
next to a brunette with a pair of immaculate green eyes,
she kept her mouth closed,
and her hair down,
she smelled like Christmas morning,
my hands were bound,
and i walked right past the prolific sense emitted,
and trailing behind was a paper trail,
robbed the mill and until i could suffer like a vagrant..
I'd pass her row every time...
hopefully she'll smile,
and my legs will give a shake..
and ill pass out for awhile
until The weekly slaughtering of newspapers woke me
and procured a fresh view,
the fixation on the underline,
fragmented and dissected,
and it began again,
laced with the prototypical feel of a dead archetype..
rationalized as pure
but we were never sure,
never sure for long