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The Pixies

Every time I come to write; I only write one or two sentences and then can’t go on. My brain is scrambled and I trip when I make plans. Nothing rises off the ground. I hate everyone. I see pain and gray. I see endings without beginnings, enemies and no friends. There are no condolences only insults. The prettiest rose hides a heart of rot.
Don’t tell me I am alright. I have skulked along this road before. And it repeats, and it repeats and it repeats. I’m going nowhere with my burdens in a bag. Like a bone man I collect them as I stumble.
I can not derive any beauty any pleasure from anything. I want to tear it all down. I want to punch you in the face. I want to jump off a cliff. This is not what makes me happy. It’s the energy inside me. It’s the demon that rides me. It’s the mutant you can’t see. You think I’m edgy, I’m not. The agitation over takes my brain. The tsunami under the ocean’s wavelets. The magma shifting in chamber. The killer’s well controlled disquiet. My nostrils bob above a sulfuric acid surface my toes touching the tip of a ship wreck. Someone drag me down or pull me up, the purgatory of a middle ground is wrenching my mind. This is where I want to get off.

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