Robert Smith is screaming at me, for me. The Wailing Guitar is my voice. No one hears me scream because I end in a nervous laugh. Faith and Pornography. Is that really all there is?
I walk through the air and make no breeze. I am Invisible. No one sees me because I don't see Myself. I hide from myself, sickened and black, the wet leftovers of a campfire in the rain. No use for it anymore. Soon to sick into the earth, forgotten.
Cheeks wet with tears that never come. Bloodshot eyes in the morning, I am allergic to the awakened world. Self-exiled, quarantined from others. I cannot connect.
I can't write. I have nothing to say that hasn't been said before. Typing is the sound of a pebble in the middle of an avalanche. I choke on other's dust, and I fall before the rush. Trapped beneath a boulder, I sit until the sun sets. Pinched in a Trap of my own devising, I am bored with it all and suffer until the last blood drop trickles out my veins.
In the hanging garden, I wish to hang. I shiver and shake, and I shudder and blink. My hand covers my twisting mouth. My tongue swells and shrinks, I cannot speak. My fingers bitten to the quick, blood lines my nails. The Path is hidden from my Blind-folded Eyes, and the Blue-haired Demons laugh and dance around my wasted body.
Can you hear them? They gnash their teeth, emitting hyena howls and lick my ears. "Join us, join us; it takes but a moment..." My cries go unanswered. No one sees my pleading eyes. Part of me doesn't care anymore.
But am too weak.