A little of this, A little of that

It usually starts with a story, a story of someone not well in life 

Not happy,  not satisfied 

It always starts with the hunger to go forward, to reach where you are meant to

Come on, move on, like time

Strike twelve already! 

It’s my story, I like half past three 

When I reach the end gate, a voice in me begs to turn around 

Turn around and back up those steps and into the bed 

For nothing can touch you while you act dead. 

It’s weed, it’s infectious, it crawls up on me, unannounced. 

I wince when it hits, I cry when it crushes me to the depths of despair 

I wind the time to half past three 

And it’s silent again,  it’s silent in my soul. 

It’s never locked for long as the clock strikes ten 

I again descend the stairs to hell.

Catch my breath,  feel the fire, know that I know 

What happens when the curtains fall

When the light is turned back on. 


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