Mondays suicide
Collective amounts of caffeine couldn't keep my eyes open in the halls of desperate cocaine and heroin wannabes, bleach blonde and orange walls of dead brain cells. The smoke keeping me stress free as I possibly can be with the dead end feeling of going no where and becoming no one, falling hopeless to the unknown groups of sadness. Shuffling boney legs of the bulimic and enemic brains,purple gashed and blood stained faces of the abused and the accused wearing invisibility blankets hiding from higher legions, standing in the line of the same brained cookie cutter molds of who we should be in a sea of industry. I can't wrap my ribs around this concept like the cage of a small bird unable to stretch and spread its wings and every Monday I know I'll be a walking stomach ache taking my breakfast off a mirror with the traces of the words from people I still share rooms with in my veins, my hands are hurricanes.
