Climb the highest mountain, punch the face of god
The Suicide of Our Years
I'm dancing slow steps around you, as you lay upon the ground,
A beautiful piece of human wreckage. My camera in hand,
I dance a haunting flow and snap a picture of your suicide.
You still breathe in and out like you never died but, you have
Been dead for years, maybe it has been just that one part of
You that died there, or grew up, on those hardwood floors.
I've let the piano play its melodies out as I lay on the floors
Of the years that have slipped away from me. Years that ground
Up the memories of the winters I've wasted, the summers I've tasted; of
All the occasions I was in an ominous coma, still waiting to emerge with hands
That grasp the throat of time, crushing it all like coffee beans and you have
Come along to drink yourself awake. We chat of sweet things, like suicide.
The best things in life aren't free; the best things in life are suicide.
The slow cut, the flow of blood, quitting in life. Upon those floors
Where I once threw up, a remorseful taste of what life offered, you have
Approached me with ideas of living. Upon these fetid stomping grounds
Where dreams lay in coffins, I came upon the memory of you, I hand
You a tear or two, and wait, until the voices are what I've had enough of.
I thought that in a year or two I wouldn't feel so sad, but of
Course I'm wrong. I've been wrong many times, for so many years. Suicide
Is my option. I remember in nightmares I danced with your grave and a hand
Filled with blood and roses, one in the same. I'm on the floor,
I cannot shiver, I want to be dead like you. I'm sorry, the ground
Is a cold place where I sit, but the other side, been there, you have.
And then you sit there, on “cloud nine” awaiting another chance, you have
Filled me with dread, depression and thought, and more recently of
Course, diligence. I've smashed the ground with this breakable memory
Of mine, dancing twists and turns, the dance of mercy killings, suicides.
I cannot stop dancing and though I'm no good at it, in your memory I dance. Floors,
I step upon them but do not feel them. In my haze I've grasp together my hands.
I am helping myself. With these writers hands,
I am able to grip and throttle the pen, spill words onto the paper until you have
Committed them to memory. You never even got to see me at my best, not grounded
Here as I am, but elsewhere, a beautiful rainbow of hope. It is of
Better things that I came upon these headstones, marked with years. Suicide
Took the best of our friends from those years. They join you in the ground.
Slash below my hand, let's pray to a God of
Which you have see. Yours was not suicide.
I'm displayed upon the floor, to be put into the ground.
January 9, 2006
Suge
*I had a friend who was killed when she was hit by a car. It affected me deeply and I've always wanted to kill myself to see her again. It's a weird emotional thing I guess*
A beautiful piece of human wreckage. My camera in hand,
I dance a haunting flow and snap a picture of your suicide.
You still breathe in and out like you never died but, you have
Been dead for years, maybe it has been just that one part of
You that died there, or grew up, on those hardwood floors.
I've let the piano play its melodies out as I lay on the floors
Of the years that have slipped away from me. Years that ground
Up the memories of the winters I've wasted, the summers I've tasted; of
All the occasions I was in an ominous coma, still waiting to emerge with hands
That grasp the throat of time, crushing it all like coffee beans and you have
Come along to drink yourself awake. We chat of sweet things, like suicide.
The best things in life aren't free; the best things in life are suicide.
The slow cut, the flow of blood, quitting in life. Upon those floors
Where I once threw up, a remorseful taste of what life offered, you have
Approached me with ideas of living. Upon these fetid stomping grounds
Where dreams lay in coffins, I came upon the memory of you, I hand
You a tear or two, and wait, until the voices are what I've had enough of.
I thought that in a year or two I wouldn't feel so sad, but of
Course I'm wrong. I've been wrong many times, for so many years. Suicide
Is my option. I remember in nightmares I danced with your grave and a hand
Filled with blood and roses, one in the same. I'm on the floor,
I cannot shiver, I want to be dead like you. I'm sorry, the ground
Is a cold place where I sit, but the other side, been there, you have.
And then you sit there, on “cloud nine” awaiting another chance, you have
Filled me with dread, depression and thought, and more recently of
Course, diligence. I've smashed the ground with this breakable memory
Of mine, dancing twists and turns, the dance of mercy killings, suicides.
I cannot stop dancing and though I'm no good at it, in your memory I dance. Floors,
I step upon them but do not feel them. In my haze I've grasp together my hands.
I am helping myself. With these writers hands,
I am able to grip and throttle the pen, spill words onto the paper until you have
Committed them to memory. You never even got to see me at my best, not grounded
Here as I am, but elsewhere, a beautiful rainbow of hope. It is of
Better things that I came upon these headstones, marked with years. Suicide
Took the best of our friends from those years. They join you in the ground.
Slash below my hand, let's pray to a God of
Which you have see. Yours was not suicide.
I'm displayed upon the floor, to be put into the ground.
January 9, 2006
Suge
*I had a friend who was killed when she was hit by a car. It affected me deeply and I've always wanted to kill myself to see her again. It's a weird emotional thing I guess*
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The Suicide of Our Years
The Suicide of Our Years
