Built for the Kill

Box of Unwritten Pages

Still with jeans and shirt, I sit here on a quiet afternoon. Alone with my thoughts, not a word shall be spoken. Wanting so hard to believe but I let my eyes do the talking. I ask for nothing more, I wish for nothing more. Is it enough to hope? If it’s lost, is it over? Wake me up when September ends, the song goes.

This is the kind of tired that can never be relieved with sleep. It’s the kind of headache that doesn’t have medicine. What is the worth of a bullet-proof car if your killer is the driver? Who else should you trust if your best friend is a traitor? Which path should you choose if you don’t know where you’re going? Random thoughts from cluttered emotions. Unspoken truth from a brokenhearted soul.

Ever so often do I dream of diving in that lake. Skinny dipping. Surrendering…

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