The Usual Fee: Forty Quid

 

The Usual Fee: Forty Quid
August 16th, 2014

I am the embodiment of bitter goodbyes and broken hearts.
A performance of past passion, and I play all the parts,
but I’m forgetting all the lines and becoming tongue-tied;
someone stop this scene of sacrilege, someone take my side.

Someone stand by me as these seconds slowly pass,
tedious time transitions – like watching the clock in class.
Every minute I imagine that for a moment you are near;
maybe one day I’ll snap out of it and realize that you were never here.

The meds make it easier to let my lids fall,
and when my eyes shut I anxiously abort it all –
all the memories that steal the smile off my skull,
and all the heartbreak that overheated and hacked at my hull.

Burning up upon reentry with the sentry stationed near,
but no one manned the cannons ‘cause my whole crew’s up here –
yeah, crews quarters in my cranium, keeping quiet as we crash,
and I fight for last words, yeah my inner voices clash.

Leaf on the wind, and suddenly my ‘shield’s split;
rain crashing through the cracks, and I never knew what hit.
I’ve been spiraling down and drowning in the desperate dying dimension;
too much trouble ‘tween my temples has left my soul in suspension. 

Clean-vocal colloquialism in the midst of chaotic chords,
nothing to applaud though – I won’t be winning any awards.
Past the present problem but now that present’s past,
and I’m so lost in this timeline and going nowhere fast. 

I’ve got r.l.s. on the dance floor of our past,
but the anticonvulsants I just popped should be kicking in fast.

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