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I am, was, will be sitting here
In the ink black of my room that is my only shelter
Listening to the repeat of my song
Again, again, and again.
Thinking of the memories
That have never happened,
That will never be made,
About the things that we do
Will be doing.
The time doesn’t matter to me.
These memories that I have made
Fit like pieces of broken glass
From a bottle of chilled, bitter reality.
I’m missing some chips,
But also missing the drops of life that have been spilled.
My dreams are the glass fragments.
My life is the beverage that it surrounds.
And time is at which I drink the life from my imagination.
No matter how much life I drink, spill,
I will always remember the things that I have created for us.
Seven minutes have passed.
Only a mere drop from my rancid drink.
But maybe you could make it better,
Give me a better ingredient for my cocktail of emotions.
A little bit of sweetness, a little bit of spice,
A grain of sugar, a drop of wine,
Something to make my cold, tasteless mixture a little bit more like something I can drink from.
My song repeats again
As I check the time, pointlessly.
I work on remaking my bottle,
All of its contents splattered across the floor.
I use glue, like my hopes and questions,
That can only be answered if I continue this life.
My curiosity keeps me alive, lets me will to find out more.
But this time, as I soak my stale life from the wood floor,
I throw away my rag of bad memories
And fill my bottle with delicious liquid.
Creamy milk, fizzing liquor, steaming tea,
For the kindness, excitement, and warmth,
That I want
Will always dream for.
I add in vanilla for love,
Chocolate for lust,
And sweet medicine for health.
I shake my bottle; the colors of my new life intertwining; dancing.
I raise the tip, take a drink.
I find my new concoction disgusting.
My once beautiful, colorful ideas,
Now brown and muddled,
Drip down the sides of my bottle.
I still have not found the final fragments of made-up memory to secure my life in its place.
But, for once, my lack of dreams has saved me from a frivolous, slimy sort of life that only looks like a good idea.
I pour, poured, will pour out my new life
And fill my bottle with the old, dull liquid.
Clear, flat, cold.
I could consume my bottle instead.
The shatters lay of the floor once more.
I find a decent small piece in the puddle of life,
And slip it into my mouth.
Swallow, swallowed, will swallow.
I taste the blood on my tongue and feel the sharp edges of the piece slice into me.
It hurts as it rips down me,
Perhaps there is a reason why you shouldn’t eat bottles.
The parts of your life that you cannot live
Should not be lived,
Because they lead to immanent death.
But in death, life does not hold me back
From experiencing the beautiful, crystal life that I want.
my end of “what”.
My song repeats again.
I know you’re still listening.