And in the evening when the rain washes down, inviting you to let of flow too. When you want to let the masks and self control and PC-ness float away, like a crushed, orphaned, news-paper bag floating aimlessly in the rain-swelled gutter, when it gets to much, living without you, knowing there are no comebacks, no relief, no substitutes that will ever be, that everyone will always be just a temporary distraction from missing you, then I miss an old favourite, Knife
Sometimes, I hate you. Sometimes I hate myself. Sometimes I hate the world, for living on inspite off. A handful of mustard seeds, doesnt answer my call.
Originally Posted at Prerona.