freeway fade.

a man once told me that when it rains it pours.
i'm fed up with all of the sluts and whores.
every night i'm on the freeway they throw their petty numbers at me.
i never catch them, never hold them, never get my money's worth.
when i lay awake in bed i split my mind open and search.
another crime scene on the overpass and i can't help but look.
there's a dull pain in my lower back like a rusty twisted hook.
tipping back a copper pot, all the noxious sludge runs free.
homeless men keep on searching for the one who holds the key.
when that man told me that it rains and pours i certainly paid him no mind.
then the pain crept back and i laid myself flat, fading out somewhere in time.

the door swings through a passing fable.

it was a day. that's all it was. there wasn't anything special about it. it was just another day like every other day before it. things went on. things continued, and as usual everything was tolerated and generally well enough. i hated everything about it. i just want you to know that. it was sick, ugly, and wrong. i wanted it to stop so many times. i just wished that i could rearrange the events, the people, the general way that things played out. so many times, i just wanted to destroy. i wanted to take the pretty things of the world and just smash them. i wanted to hold them close to my heart, yank them away, and then squeeze them tightly until every ounce that they were composed of was left to sit lifeless on the floor. don't be confused by other people. they might tell you they had a good day. they might tell you they had a bad day. they might tell you that they had one of the weirdest days they've had in a while. now, i'm being perfectly honest with you when i tell you that there's no such thing as good and there's no such thing as bad either. it'll never be a good day. it'll never be a bad day. all we have are days and nights. all i can say is that it was a day. i don't want to pay any attention to the taste of blood in my mouth. all i can say is that it was simply a day, and that tonight it will be just another one of the same old nights like every other night. there will be no celebration. there will be no devestation. there will be no famine. there will be no feast. it will be a night. it will turn to day. it will make me sick. i just want you to know that this is how i feel. it will always be sick, ugly, and wrong. it will always break my heart. the general habitualness that plauges our everyday routines has grown to epidemic proportions. just know that i tried to make it better. just know that i tried to make it through. just know that i tried.