Stand

strangleation and a million tiny voices with sharp swords in their back pockets. empty cartons of milk scattered in the hall with the rest of the white trash. fancy magpies, if only i had a shotgun. if only i had a sense of reality so i could destroy the sickness that lives in me and rise against the night, back to the way things were, even if death should follow. strafe, spin, twist, inhale the powder. i can write it but when i speak it's like the world ends. over and over and over and over and over...