That dusty muddy afternoon
With headaches, maddening silly sounds,
With all unhappy wicked smiles,
Turning my soul and mind around.
I don't know where I should begin,
To flee away from endless spin
With Sundays as cold as fish skin,
Where flashy sleeps are felt like boon.
I don't know who I need to kill
To stop the sickness that i feel,
Stop crying howling at the moon,
Rip up the ribs to feel immune.
That air is thick like cigarette smoke,
The walls are covered with chagrin,
This life is like a trifling joke.
I stopped to hear my voice within.
I don't know how to save my life
From their mortal 'being alive'.
Which wire should I cut to burst?
From all the ends I need the worst.
Nausea
© Copyright: Этоттт, 2012
Свидетельство о публикации №212020800245
Свидетельство о публикации №212020800245
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