Oh gosh, nothing's meaning any thing.
Here, round again. Circles in the clubs again.
Turning on my feet once more,
to songs I've never heard before.
And still wishing for a mike and something painful.
To enter a room and make you want to cry.
So sliding hands did nothing any more.
A year and a half and an over the mark.
Lips much too bitter and grips not so tight.


How could I not? When there's a cliche attached to every thing said.
Coming third was never best.
But i clung to the number, claiming it's luck,
Until i rolled over, thirtieth.

Just like clinging to rails on the underground,
And the turn rolls the heads of every drone onboard to Victoria.
Each end of each Metro page wilting like a rose dying fast,
Each eye widening as a book leans away from them.
The black outside.
Underside.

Taking my own pen to other people's paper seemed a way to put it out.
Feeling as though every thing should be written,
as not to forget any details in future.
But what am i saving them for exactly ?
No one really wants to hear them,
just to respond with their own opinion.



~