Climb the highest mountain, punch the face of god


From cold fingers, the feeling rushes back.
My head is numb with notions and ideas,
My mind is cold from ignorance,
My heart is beating but like a block of ice
Dropped upon the pavement.

Where hath this cold come from?

Sometimes I hear the voices,
They tell me to go from one scenario to the other,
But to leave this part-that part out.
I'm sure I've twisted my head around
Trying to peer into someone's eyes
Only to find that there is nothing but the unseen.

And where do these voices come from?
Why have I gained the privy to hear them?
When I remember all the things from before,
I think of all the bad things,
Why is there never good things
Rushing back to memory?
Why does it seem like I am repressing them?

I don't feel like I'm ever allowed to say
What I truly feel,
I'm left to be numb,
Either from coldness or sickness or sadness,
It's the same numbness, just with a different meaning.

October 25, 2004

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