Vagrant Vagabond

I've got so much thoughts running through me now. Phrases, words, gestures and emotions. Almost all run by emotions. The door's not even locked.

I don't know what's the cause of all this. I do know the music that's playing is playing a certain role in all of this. I just don't know. It's a different feeling you know. You know, you just don't know you know.

It might have been the book I was reading. A real good book I'd say. Most probably the only book that got me so hooked, and the only reason why I had to leave it was because my bladder was ready to go ka-put. Yes, it goes ka-put, followed by the queasy face. No, queasy first, the ka-put. Then queasy.

Really can't believe I let this band slip through my fingers. Yes yes I'm only human and all that, but seriously, really can't believe.


I'm trying to keep my mind busy, and it's been working for most parts, except when I typed that down. About me trying to keep my mind busy. It's working again though.

It's a shell, no? On ours back. That we use when we need shelter. I'm coming outta it though, I guess it's time I discovered something else. Something I'd feel more relax doing, something I'd feel more comfortable showing. Cause quite frankly I'm sick of this nonsense where I'm not me and you're simply being you as easy as you can. Cause I've always been sick with this phony place where no originality comes from. Where everything's mimicked and lives are toyed with. Cause really, it's you who's really the toy, we're just the creators that has created the monster you. And that we take joy in what we see, in what we have created. Cause really, we are voyeurs all. Cause really, we love watching. Anything, Everything. Something, nothing. All of it. None of it. Full of it. Full of shit.

And while we all try to be us you're happily being you. And like zealous step-sisters we all wished we could scalp that smile off your sweet innocent. Cause there's nothing more satisfying then turning you into one of us. Making you, like one of us. It's knives in our pockets not pockets full of love it's pockets full of knives sharp blood-filth knives. It's blood stained our clothes not soap scented fabrics. Cause it's your blood we truly desire it's your blood we truly want to see dripping down our knives our sharp blood-filth knives. We're conniving your downfall, let the cackles pierce through the night while we watch. Them carving your face.

The beauty of poetry. And the beauty that I can write all this. It's a pity though.

I'm all me, in less and more. And I'm all being baffled once more. Cause I'm full of everything. That I'm full of something.

And that I'm hoping I can be appreciated. That's all I ask for. That's all I ever dream of. Let the rest follow.


I still love you, don't you know?

I love you; don't you know? No you, not you. Yes, you. You.