thinkofsomething

terror and a table-cloth preclude
another extravaganza of wondrous pain.
-the pain that sails ships and exists in the infinity
of an idea. is there much else, besides a tomorrow afraid
to come? reels of smoke and obscure background music can't conceal.
the playground of the pitiful is a sorry, bleeding page. an everyday ice-burg of isolation
suggested in kind; more of the same nothing and excessive amounts of
what's worse --corrosive normalcy. yesterday was too long,
so we stay up all night and drink. we drink the blood
from our own arms, then search for more.
we find solace only in vacuum.
our lips crave the caress of true emptiness.