Tonight could have been your night. Out of twenty important things you could have done, you did nothing and the days still pass. Night into day, day into night, watching films and sleeping anywhere you can. Half-finished art works sit like lead bricks, just like your heart. Smoke bombs and spray paint still hide in your bedroom--they could have seen what you see tonight. They still sit, waiting. Your apathy is killing you. Maybe a good night of graffiti will cure it. Maybe. You still sit, waiting--but for what? What is there that you want? Freedom? Space? Releif from the heat? Or maybe just a brand new heart. You can't remember the last time you smiled. You've spent days on a conspiracy that is making you blind and slow. The answers aren't here for you, just questions answered with questions answered with questions answered with questions. Footsteps pass by your closed door and you just don't know whose they are, minutes pass quicker than you hoped. You've spent too long crying over the past not to learn that it'll always be a part of you. What you do with that part is up to you. The crimes aren't getting any easier, you know. 18 and your only claim to infamy is that you've never gotten caught because you're too smart and too paranoid. Maybe something will come along that you'll run with. Or maybe it's just the end of the world.
Reason for writing:
because it was the end of the world.
Birth sign: Gemini
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