Suddenly you want to pour all your
misery out, like all the sorrow in your soul, like the old surgery incision
scar on your back, the one that the doctor squeezes and all you feel is this
bliss of having something poisonous removed from your body, rather ashamed
though of the stench that obviously is from your sore, then the absolute bliss
of everything getting cleaned and the antiseptic scent of spirit and finally
the world is after all not really the space to be.
One wonders but can be never sure
what is beyond. Experiment of the mind, seeking the essence of madness, which
you hope, is the ultimate truth.
Chicken Sausages, Highland Butter,
Fresh Bread from Baker, and Katta Sambol… Now that me mates, is one hell of a
truth.
The same as I don't understand his,
does a child in Africa understand my misery, my sorry. Are they all that create
pain, all but the one?
Your back tingles; wanting those
doctors gloved hands to squeeze out the sorrow, the anger, the pain and regret.
You know you’re very close, but yet
not close enough to the truth.
But its not written in the bottom
of a bottle of vodka, I know that too well.
dD
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