Defective, Centre Star

A mirage of decay, sometimes softer than my heart, cascades, runs away, broken bits will fall apart, I am stuffed with these sounds, not a melody but a croak, choking down these swift songs in hope that I can cope.

There is nothing behind the star stream of my own demise, swatting bugs from my eyes, constant apprehension, fear to be precise.

I am a fist fight of night time, swallowed by the day, sucked in by the energies that I lay to waste, pressing my skull to pillows in attempt to fall to sleep, there is nothing for no one, they tell me, yet these pills down my throat they creep.

I'll bide my time, and waiting here, I find there is no cure, for the plague that has been knocking down my doors, I am here I am there, I am common I am rare, I am everything you want me to be, but unfortunately so much more.

I don't stop at being simple, because darling, that just isn't me, I'm everything more than nothing, but nothing is what you'll see.

The End

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