Tuesday, 30 September 2008


I was sitting here, minding my own business,swear i didn't even bothered a fly nor did i intended so.
Mirrored my thoughts onto the tip of my fingers and let rip and still didn't make myself understood.The spur of the moment, the edge, the uncontrollable need to tell it as it is and mourn the missed words or the ones said way to much.I continuously fall into that trap because i picture a painting and not a film.
There are no still moments there is only organic time there simply fluidity of motion, cause, effect, cause.I should've known better by now.
It's like i keep on seeing myself doing what i just did.
So what is it that in you bothers me so?
How do i allow you to mesmerise me yet?
Fuck off, will you?

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