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.old. .new. .guestbook. .notes. .email.
.profile. .diaryland. .song. .story. .things. .records. .rings. .site. This is not beauty. This is disease. 2006-07-04 3:01 pm I really need to stop writing love poems. Love is a waste of time. It doesn't get you anywhere. Even guilt takes regret and makes it useful for the future. Love just sits there, unused, wanting. Extraneous. It's like a story without a point. A joke without a punch line. Useless. It stagnates, spoils like old cheese. Incites no development. Lives inside you like a parasite that's become your symbiont. A fat squelchy tapeworm. Whoever says love is a fever is a fucking liar. Love is the goddamn bubonic plague. A disease. Gangrene. Taking over. Like having a limb cut off when you least expect it. A cancer in the brain. Shaking, shaking, epilepsy or Parkinson's, but never forgetful - sharp as sleet until the last moment. An ache. Torture, prolonged. Picks away at your head like small rodents taking bites from your skull. Unfair as untimely death. Suck, suck, sucked through a straw... Imagination, killed. Shit happening every second. A wish for sleep. A plunger in your lungs. Knucklebound to leather. Hardly accomodating. |