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ian mcphee - 21 - indianapolis, indiana
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Every other breath is an inhale, gasping for air or chemistry in between miscommunications of survival instincts. God, forgive me for my synapses. Six in the morning, staring at a shattered screen again. You win. Binary with no rhyme or reason. Something else to stop believing. Short circuitry of a long lost lovebird and another five hundred words or so. 
Running low on steam, punk. Stupid fucking dreams and a junkyard heart. Tired as all hell and still not worth a damn to you. Come warm up my blankets, they shut off the gas, water and electric. My hands are tied. Bad bad bad squid 
Waiting for you on the porch of the seventh house on the left off the morris/prospect exit ramp. Breathing in gas fumes at $3.67 an exhale, listening to the only song the interstate can sing that goes “Get outta town.” A friend of mine told me you can see through the eyes of a bird if you really try. So I’m getting really high and tonight I’m gonna stare up at the sky until I’m looking down on the mess I’ve made and head west until the skyline finally fades and I won’t blink for days and even if it takes a month of flying with the wind in my face I’ll ride the heat wave to the coast and stay. I’ll sweat you out in the morning, It will drip on the pavement and Stain it. I know all of my neighbors But they still call the cops When i play guitar On the roof. |
