Knowing something, that you cannot speak of and cannot repeat twice in mind, is almost benign if it was stationary influence that drives me.
Yet of dynamic ridicule and over extending fantasy that i keep fuel’d.
Sometimes i wonder where the hell i am, have i been here b’fore ? This place i know, i know not – yet i seem to find myself finding reason to familiar myself with it. Its almost as though i have lost that cotent and medium and very basic piece of mind that makes it.I’m empty like the empty corrordors i hear
as the shiney blank tiled reflections stare back at me as it seems like behind me a thousand follow me down this corradors or endless echos – im empty, im one dimensional.I’m hollow, my god im hollow, wallow, wallow in my sorrow.As she mourns her baby, i find myself thinking of maybe.
Remember not this day, this cardboard day, remember not this day, for ’tis day that you’d be cut open exposed, profussly reveled and at the mercy of undefined feelings.Do not remember this day, for this day i will not.
Mourn your baby, mourn your soul, mourn your body, mourn your self, morn your baby.
I mourn for you, your babym i mourn – i mourn these days so frequently i wonder if they hear my thin mind ?
Mourn your baby.
Mourn your baby.