Damn It All

i don’t know.

Ii mean I really don’t know anymore. or trust. or, or even think straight, really, but what’s the damn point of thinking straight in a cracked place of dark dark black like this. every bone in my damned body has been bent or poxed by some false time that boiled me–BOILED ME from the inside out. twenty minutes from now I might not, not even remember that I was the one who wrote this down. twenty minutes from now I might not even be able to read. what the hell is twenty minutes in this damned castle tomb anyway, SHIT.

i want to be helpful. do I want to be helpful? i want to be drunkful, maybe. restful. peace-and-quietful with only the sounds of natureful to lull me to sleepful but all I can be now in this placeful is grateful for the few moments when I’m airful–when falling from the damned skyful–because it’s the only timeful when I’m really on my OWN.

i don’t even smell the same anymore.

i need my cave. i need the real. and when I get back there I’m going to consider never being nice to the bats ever again. Fucking bats. Damn mist. Damn dank that isn’t real dank I miss my dank DAMN it all.

damn it all.

Author: Graeme

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