Save me from myself, little tablet that makes Actavis a lot of money. 30mg of numbness in the palm of my hand. Once a day. Every day. Forever.
Or for a few years at least.
The world isn't even that bad. I just want to know what a life without sadness would be like. Get some crazy new ideas. Inspire myself. With nothingness.
Why would I want to be happy all the time, if that means I can't appreciate what it means to crack a joke. To smirk. To fall over myself with side-splitting amusement.
When happiness is all that is left, perhaps it is like programming a machine.
/Remove/sad/all.
/Insert/happiness/100%
/Bypass/soul/heart/spirit.
My sanctuary may lie inside a capsule of foil and plastic. But it can't purge a madness that was always there. A melancholy and black comedy behind my eyes. Stab. Stab. Stab.
Oh psychiatrist, please don't try to put the anal into analysis, while you examine my fine works of metaphor. I am not a killer. Although I have slain entire crowds with mirth. Perhaps I would be proud to murder someone with humour. Laughed to death. What a way to die. Why do I not find anyone so funny?
Deadpan face unless I am reeling out a story of my own. But now I feel a gradual transition.. I imagine a crocodile. Look in its eyes. Dead inside. Drifting along like a reptilian log. Sometimes opens its mouth. Silent laughter without the joke.
We know it isn't really happy.
It is dead inside.
When I SMS you next, imagine that scaly, beady-eyed, vacant face with the open mouth..
"ROFL.."
Or for a few years at least.
The world isn't even that bad. I just want to know what a life without sadness would be like. Get some crazy new ideas. Inspire myself. With nothingness.
Why would I want to be happy all the time, if that means I can't appreciate what it means to crack a joke. To smirk. To fall over myself with side-splitting amusement.
When happiness is all that is left, perhaps it is like programming a machine.
/Remove/sad/all.
/Insert/happiness/100%
/Bypass/soul/heart/spirit.
My sanctuary may lie inside a capsule of foil and plastic. But it can't purge a madness that was always there. A melancholy and black comedy behind my eyes. Stab. Stab. Stab.
Oh psychiatrist, please don't try to put the anal into analysis, while you examine my fine works of metaphor. I am not a killer. Although I have slain entire crowds with mirth. Perhaps I would be proud to murder someone with humour. Laughed to death. What a way to die. Why do I not find anyone so funny?
Deadpan face unless I am reeling out a story of my own. But now I feel a gradual transition.. I imagine a crocodile. Look in its eyes. Dead inside. Drifting along like a reptilian log. Sometimes opens its mouth. Silent laughter without the joke.
We know it isn't really happy.
It is dead inside.
When I SMS you next, imagine that scaly, beady-eyed, vacant face with the open mouth..
"ROFL.."
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