DinsaneCJ11

I want to give in to my every bad instinct Because I like the blood trickling down in silence I like hematomas like different blooming flowers under sheets Because if it wasn’t for the birds, I wouldn’t even see the trees If they weren’t ashes, I wouldn’t be I want the light trapping my image in the smooth surface Of the swiftest killer I need the sounds to have colour I’m only in my skin if I’m in another’s I’m still the Scar Collector I keep drowning in my mirror I found a door in the back of my cranial box That makes all the frescoes become litter Neo is diving in the matrix While cortex is turning me bitter J’envie de voler Des caresses Et m’enlever En quittant ma peau Et mes organes qui me représentent pas Continuer à vivre sur le monde des idées Pas gourd pas lourd Devenir en forme ce que j’étais en esprit Des fumes La Terre m’appelle à ma place dans les racines L’arbre transitoire et évasif Hold back the tears and impulses The hand that whips and chokes Is the same that feeds

Have you ever noticed the way a few words— can make all the difference in a story? Such as to paint a scene where golden leaves drift off a tree in autumn then get crunched underfoot by little boots on their way to a bus stop rather than to have the dried remnants of a summertime gone plucked from those same branches in the fall by a cold wind to get crushed by shoes along a cement sidewalk? …conscious choices made for desired impressions

The silence had a tendency to feel cruel Casting shadows that sometimes danced But they were mine to define

I have lived inside many skins where each one shed a little with the change of a dose But nothing has felt more real than trying to understand the skin I was actually born with