If I could bottle this mood, I’d sell it as a gift set for £38.95 inc tax.
It would be wrapped in polyester silk mix and placed in a plastic bag which I’ll later sellotape around your head.
Broken moods by group meetings of head bangers and tattoos on bleach stinking corridor walls.
Phone calls, visits made for a documentary on how its ending, its over for sure.
A little fantasy no more, that bubble I hate been locked up for a century or more. A freedom a change a mortifying shame.
I was stood standing sat there, relating everything you said back to the trite and unfair. Shadowed in black lights and screaming for you in the night.
A broken sweat, a fear, so I move my bed 90 degrees to the right.
It’s feng shui , of a girl I fancy, a hell cat in disguise that makes me think and question.
An issue I’ve simply forgotten
to change my dress.
I answer myself by saying lies to you and distracting myself with a gift set and opening a door to the floor.
A bull shit answer to a not quiet genuine question, an inuendo
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