line-busy

98.00 Autumn is the season when everything dies. The leaves shrivel up and your lungs go with them, tiny dejected organs drying out inside your sternum, crinkling under our footsteps. The doctors pronounce their diagnosis as the leaves fall, listing medical terms and percentages and something about medication options. The disease is metastatic: it has bored its way out of your lungs and into your bones. Dissatisfied, it's going for your organs, your liver, your heart. The prognosis says Christmas is a pipe dream, likely as the sun ceasing to set. You promise it anyway. 94.00 November comes and I am a fish, breathing through makeshift gi

What You Can't Remember: You know that something's wrong inside But you will try to hide it. Far away from prying eyes; You say you don't remember... What is this memory inside. You feel like you've forgotten. A part of you decides; To say you don't remember... How long will you deny The bitter truth behind it. The day you lost yourself; But now you can't remember... When first you took away the mask And looked back at the mirror. You thought you saw another man; But you simply don't remember... The times when you were not yourself When you forced yourself upon her. It was a day like this; But now you won't remember... Th