Saturday, May 29, 2010

I Told You So

I don't care about your stupid rules, not a bit.

I don't care about your behavioral problems, not even in a flash of light.
I don't care of your stupid irrational reasons. It is not true.

The true nature of lies, as those splotches of blood, dries on the floor.
They seeps through the ice cold ground.
Disappeared. With no one knowing.

Bones are slowly decomposing. And those bodies, decaying.
As warm breath of Summer, fighting through the blistering cold winds of December.
I can see that ugly old oak tree.

It's standing there. Watching my every moves.
It is an old ugly oak tree, can't you see it?
It is not a young shoot of peach tree. The ones that you could imagine the sweet scent of it even when it's not there yet.

Fools. As deaf as a post.

I can feel my own self, rotting in this dark cellar.
Spending my days counting how many times those tiny splotches of blood reaches the ground.
Quickly dries, as if it will give the sense that pain will soon ease off from under my skin.

Nothing can be done. It's 10 o' clock at night. All the trains has left.
And I'm on board. Heading to my next destination.
Away. Away from this erratic pandemonium.

It's just like watching black and white TV; I can see those bleeding colors, trying to push through and break the barriers of fantasy and reality.

As you sing your melody, those hidden notes are tormenting my sanity.
Insane. Had I gone insane? I sure want to. So I could hide this scars in fantasy land.
You're not running after me. I know. I can hear you. Screaming her name.

She's a crackhead prostitute if you ask me.
How do I know? Everyone knows. Everyone sees. Everyone listens.
It is just you. Buried in those thick layers of lies. Not once tries to find your way out of there.

And now, you ask my willow tree to grow apples. It ain't going to happen.
After all, it is my willow tree. Not yours. You can't expect more from it. I won't let you.
I'm not going to let your crackhead prostitute rest under my willow tree. I don't care what she's been through. She should've known better. But then I remember, she sold her brain for a whiff of cigar and dried leaves for that bong of hers.

Lies runs through their veins. Thick. Thicker than blood.
Cut her vein if you're unsure. You'll hear all the lies. Finding it's way resting with the other dried splotches of blood on the ground.
And you'll just stand there. Staring in disbelieve. Crying. Losing your sanity.

I told you so. You just won't listen.
I warned you so. You won't bother to think of it.

The clock is ticking. Counting it's way to the finish line. But you just sit there. Mind occupied with that poison ivy.

And when it's time; when the bell rang. I'll just stand there and watch. You. Slowly dying.

I told you so.