Pantagrem.

Trying to remember how to walk while
my head feels underwater. Make up memories
to pretend to feel real again. I'm not looking
for love, I think I've found it. It's funny how these
things works out. I used to crave attention, now I'm fucking afraid
of it. It's okay though, it doesn't cripple me. And in the end, it
doesn't matter much; I've got your attention for the most part.

these lips are unfit to see
much less kiss or kill
it's way too late to be clear
I'm far too shaken to feel fear

Too late, too deep, too far,
too long, too emotionally invested,
too apathetic, too careful, too
lonely, too snide, too
cruel, too honest,
too realistic, too dumb,
too rich, too poor,
too unfit, too
sore, too attached,
too meaningless,
too meaningful.

Fuck
my
BRAIN

Although it is nice to map out
all the emotions that don't do you justice
Romantic gibberish is all I spout
Who fucking knows what you think of it.

It's getting too dark too write
and I'm not good at walking and writing at
the same time. Oh fuck, here comes a huge
staircase.

trying to stretch my head
all that's working is nichts
I'm winding up just feeling dead
feeling between gar nichts.

However;