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>DOLDRUMS > > > >Quote: >hands smother the face and objective thought gets >explosive >roles get switched constantly in his sadistic >mindstate > > >He's laying on his back staring into the Sun >Playing russian Roulette with a fully loaded gun >Stunned that anarchy hasn't whet his appetite >As tears stream down his now deformed face >Solace is evasive >Thoughts run through his head as clouds shift shapes >He's gonna ferment these sour grapes >He thinks he can make champagne out of vinegar >hands clutching balsamic wands while daffodils disperse >Making a wish for amethyst raindrops >Was it a gift or a curse, he wanted a purple diamonf >crystal ball >Dull drums never seemed so debased and primal >He's selling his soul for a chance at naked cymbalism > > >STILL HE CAN'T ESCAPE HIS BOREDUM >. > > >nightfalls and he gets the guitar out of his closet >Singing the blues, while maintaining stoic outlooks >every riff is a gunshot fired @ social conformity >"Can I ever quell this quiet storm in me?!?!" >bloody fingers cannot surgically repair the broken >psyche >that he prayed for, somewhere 'tween schizophrenia & >amnesia >He keeps forgetting the meaning of selective memory >his room is padded and its full of poems he left >unfinished >They take him beyond these four walls, 3 which never >speak >but even if these walls could conversate he'd rather >argue >its hard to befriend a voice inside your head >All he wanted was to take flight with his inflated >imagination >Ressurecting his spirit in the soil of a doldrum >fairytale.

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