Destroy your spirit with spirits. When the alcohol goes in the truth comes out. It’s almost a naturally accepted law of displacement. Your soul’s the toll. Just gargle blood to get rid of the stench. So I am plagued by untactful love, but is there any other kind? I’m sick in so many other ways, a virus surrounded by cures. Diamonds won’t fit in my eyes, I blame stigmatism. If I feel weak, do you feel strong? Must I blind myself for you to see me? Is it wrong to want what you’re willing to give? Maybe I should just retreat further into myself. Invoke a scorched earth policy; let my demons starve on the land in pursuit.
Oh this life of mud, wherein all things are manipulated by the mind. I’m into living, just not giving, and life is so demanding. I refuse to believe that there is no more to life then simply living. I find no shortage of distractions but the application of meaning is proving to be quite evasive. The only difference between us is who is willing to work harder to live the lie. The lie is meaning.
