Better Than a Master of One
I've traveled the world in every direction but never strayed too far off the trails already blazed. So when you see the blood dripping down you'll know I've done more than my body should allow. Yet you'll say I stay in my comfort zone even though it's the comfort of my own home that I'm anxious. Chewed through the marrow of my bones now I just need a place of respite.
Now I just need a place of respite. Neither cushion nor needle but a bed of stone to remind myself how much I've sobered up. Over the years, everything is too clear. If I stay the same I'll turn to dust but after the last out of body experience I can't begin to inhale myself.
I can't begin to inhale myself because I'll remember when I lived under the floorboards next to the pirates yelling ″parlay!″ and playing chess. They speak of dreams, and if I allow them they'll convince me to get ambitious but grey crawls over black and I've already allowed it once. Something cannot be gained without loss. In need of equivalent exchange.
In need of equivalent exchange to keep myself from getting too ambitious before I become desperate and tear myself from the inside out so I can feel more comfortable as entrails on the floor. Moist and wet as boiling blood but everyone/everything else freezes up with talks of ″wasn't the last time the end?″ Wondering if there's any more room to begin somewhere else, but if it seems so tedious then we'll just leave it at that.
If this process is all there is, let us put it to rest.
