Onsdagsord.
What if I'm writing just to write and speaking just to speak. Maybe it's enough to wanna rhyme and to tweak the words until they seem complete enough to understand themselfs enough to say in writing the words you only find in lyrics, the words that almost seem unique.
I can't stop a flow of stream of dream of consciousness. I don't can't won't love your face because it screams aparentness. You've only ever seemed sincere when your tears got my hands wet from selfawareness. Babe, I love salt so it didn't hurt my skin, my heart, my fucking brain but it made me wanna leave you all the harder it's insane that you broke my heart over and over, that I loved you.
You know the kind of people who are caricatures of themselves, I asked and you smiled and asked like me? Well, yeah, like you but more one-sided, like there's not more than what meets the eye because they're too busy playing who they are so they can't be themselves.
This is not a story with an end but I have to take a bath. Go ahead. Laugh.
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