mikki-zero

And yell yell yell goes the soft voices outside my door, and they both come in at once, blocking both he exits and moving in, impounding me, this day now has meaning, get up. They say it all using not the same words, but others, too many. The day is hard to unravel, and certain words catch, catch under skin little smiling hooks And I'm caught and held, in the social kaleidoscope, consisting of only four and lacking colour. More words, will the ever stop coming? Spoken, Yelled, Typed but not written, only ever made in forms hard to track hard to hold on to. Stopping when she leaves and I feel resentment, from her, from me? I feel a change-

I'm in a bad bad mood. I'm in a throw myself against the wall and rip relationships and innuendo into shreds. I'm in a flirt with strangers, play with danger, laugh at innocent things being squashed kind of mood.

Blank faces, colourless facts, with sickness it would seem now at your throat; the smoke risen burst forth in deadly art, nonexistent repetition winds it's way into oblivion

In The Pit It’s like Fight Club. That awesome book, that cool movie, that’s what it’s like at the Pit. I suppose our ideals are slightly less noble. In a way though, our beliefs run parallel to Fight Club. “We are all a part of the same compost heap" or rather, we are the worms. We are the writhing, slimy worms, we are meaningless and faceless, chewing through crap and leftovers. We are the worms, living unseen and blind underground, flinching from the harsh light. We are the worms that keep the soil fresh and make your flowers grow. But Deities forbid we be seen above ground. The noise that thumps is incredible. Someti

thick thick skin thick lip your swollen shit spit    split mouth corners fist gear shift lost within broken riffs stiff    shift with candy coated restraints lilts catches on your breath sharp            hiss and violent  anesthesia lull get pulled out of your mindset onto the  table so they can    choke show you

I hate me so do you I'm going to go to the loo... with a big plop-plop dookie's in the can the remains of last nights big fat ham

so I shut my face and hold my breath watching you waste as I steal breaths run around in pine needled rain with pinecone hail under the trees we're wasting this cruel world is our cliché You know you wouldn't have it If it was any other way

Public servant We have to be unassuming Our hands not gaudy Our lives textbook for sure Smiles are plastered Stagnant and strained Cheerful lamp lit voices - Wind chimes to the customers brain Endlessly and upbeat, monotonously Unacknowledged company jingle More sweat shop bargains to behold With falsities and plastic cracks All through their corrupted molds

 Whoever the discovered The Alternate has a lot to answer for. Sure, sometimes the grass is a little greener on the other side. I don’t know many people who are comfortable on their side of the fence, but what if it’s you who’s having their turf taken over? I always liked it better on the other side; their reality is somehow more real… Sorry about the metaphor talk. My English teacher say’s its horrible, like I’m talking in code. Her Alt say’s its lovely, interesting, and that it makes a story sound like beautiful poetry. Since our world started becoming more uptight I suppose theirs has become more relaxe

the perfect place to die they come back in droves, with the summer steam leaving their cold homes to mellow into the warmth of a different summer they seek to bake further up the coast and they return to their mass produced nests like a herd of overcooked mutton to the home as children they despised