i want to rip the windows off the wall
as they shatter in my hands, i bleed again.
a chasm between me and my own destiny
the world is the end of everything beginning.
and what if tonight, you considered me?
what if tonight, the colors all blended into me?
tell me if tomorrow would feel the same
if i were the artist painting it?
where the speed courses through my veins,
i can feel you breathe. i can hurt with you.

and i cant tell who i am anymore,
i am a skyscraper in an endless skyline of anonymity.
i am nothing wrapped inside a veil of windows and diagonal lines.
i am an expression waiting to have a name, labeled with
the title 'artisté', lost and confused among my many shatterings.
I AM NOT A FUCKING ARTIST.
i am a blatant attempt to negate myself and my own existance
by living through these petty musings and these
canvases shaped out of ones and zeros
appearing out of nowhere with an intensity and a thought
redone, undone, redoing and now they're gone. and now i'm gone.

i want to rip the windows off the world,
let the atmosphere into invade everything.
i want to tear down this house, i want to
rebuild the empires of brutality, i want to inflict them on myself.
i want to want something besides what i want.

and. i. want. to. breathe.

08/30/2003

Author's Note: honestly, this came from the middle of fucking nowhere. just suddenly, i started typing..

Posted on 08/30/2003
Copyright © 2025 Andrew S Adams