Suddenly you want to pour all your misery out, like all the sorrow in your soul, like the old surgery incision scar on your back, the one that the doctor squeezes and all you feel is this bliss of having something poisonous removed from your body, rather ashamed though of the stench that obviously is from your sore, then the absolute bliss of everything getting cleaned and the antiseptic scent of spirit and finally the world is after all not really the space to be.
One wonders but can be never sure what is beyond. Experiment of the mind, seeking the essence of madness, which you hope, is the ultimate truth.
Chicken Sausages, Highland Butter, Fresh Bread from Baker, and Katta Sambol… Now that me mates, is one hell of a truth.
The same as I don't understand his, does a child in Africa understand my misery, my sorry. Are they all that create pain, all but the one?
Your back tingles; wanting those doctors gloved hands to squeeze out the sorrow, the anger, the pain and regret.
You know you’re very close, but yet not close enough to the truth.
But its not written in the bottom of a bottle of vodka, I know that too well.