Pacemaker

Strange sights in strange lights seem to plague the lives I’ve held tight, but is it really such a sequence that disturbs me? Is it an annoyance because I’ve heard resistance fortify it’s words, but so fondly lean towards the same tracks once they lead.

Do they see it’s such a cold world and the hopes that find them aren’t anything that people don’t know or speak? I wonder if it’s any clearer now, or if they understand the forces to which I always was so weak.

Sitting back in my bed there’s a taste in my head of some tiny little trace of all the past. Reflecting patiently I seem to relapse constantly and no matter what it always seems to last, I seem to ask “What is it that keeps me from ever finding peace in all the things that make me happy through the pace of every weak? And it seems I’ve got a lot of ground to cover just to keep the sound at bay while I attempt these peaks, and they speak to me.”

Don’t hold it in, no just let it look around, let it figure it out if it can.

Listen to the rounds it takes just to let itself escape and try to just understand.

Twisting such a life, held up in the hype, is it living by the moment? Or do you realize the change in stripes? I kept a quiet mouth to an eager ear because I didn’t have the words that it wanted to hear, I kept a quiet mouth through every storm, knowing what would happen were the tides to turn.

I can’t believe the way I’m always biting my lip, keeping my two cents, never getting any tips, I’ve been avoiding all advice because I’ve seen you sail your ships out to every harbor that you’d cursed off since we left.

And now it’s just the pulse that keeps an eye on everything, when it’s so hot in this tiny fucking room and such an opposite where I sing. Maybe I’m just sensitive to things like this, but from watching every rule that helped me stumble past the hits and watching them collapse, not holding any truth to all their limp wrists.

But maybe that’s not the case I’ve called, is it really such an unusual thing at all? I’ve seen it countless times in my own damn life, always a victim to the things I want, and always so hard did I try. They say things dry up and the times always change, but then where’s this pace in my time and when do the pieces re-arrange? Isn’t it strange?

The cold wraps and cracks like a whip, my face just so bitter to never know it’s just another slip.

Held hell in my hands, fell deep for the dance that it crafted so well in my life from it’s hips.

Saw fire in the eyes, warm and alive, but it’s always where we want that we depart from.

Felt a comfort in the touch, times I thought that I could trust, heartbeats louder than any drum.

Drank the drinks that it poured, all the fears that I ignored, were just a distant thing of the past.

Hope the morning would rise from the ashes of the night, but the days never seemed to last.

Lonely liquid sits again settled in my stomach and I’m sitting up here writing to a name settled in my hands, and every single letter starts the same, it’s always something else on my mind, but always enters the same damn frames. These little motions stir more than just some heartfelt words, poorly dealt verbs, or longings for another verse, but just a desire to stop the pains and ups and downs that always follow from being sane, from thinking things too well, over cooked ideas left on the back burner while the foreground of my conscious is overwhelmed by the lives I’ve hurt.

Taking jabs at myself again, in my head and with these pens, writing words about this process that has just left me for dead. The images have changed, the identity’s the same, and I want to sign the pages but I just can’t remember my name.

2 responses to “Pacemaker

  1. I would say distill this down to the points you are trying to make, but this is stream of consciousness. It is supposed to lunge ahead, to double back, to orbit itself and then vacate. The art is just as much in the process as it is in any one point that you make.

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