My kick-me crutch, I want to smoke. I want the demons of head and soul and body to twist and curl away in the plume. I want the head, the head, the head, right with the shoes. Perhaps they are, don't know. Am I a $20 pair of Wal-mart shoes? Probably, .. perhaps.. probably. The sun can shine and do its business tango, can be the murder tuning your spine like stairs. I don't know which way either, I don't know which way now. I don't get steam and come clean, turn cheeks and get new gas. I melt and smell and trip and crumble. I get happy quite often, but just as easy as I get sad. I get complicated and then simple and I don't know which is worse or harder to deal with.
It's the up and down motion of the mood ellavator. It's the quick creatures of conscious dodging through rooms looking for reasons and explinations that no one ever promised were there.
Would life ever be this confusing if you hadn't been convinced by some other victim that it was supposed to?
