I am Sick
Oh what a cybil theurgist am I. I have prophesied my own death.
Here I lie, clothed in a light, floral patterned garment,
My nose, burning with fire, and aching with restraint
Glowing red in the dim haze of my tired mind
My eyes view the screen, through emaciated slits
And I am sick. Yes. This is the way it must be.
--January 8, 2005
Here I lie, clothed in a light, floral patterned garment,
My nose, burning with fire, and aching with restraint
Glowing red in the dim haze of my tired mind
My eyes view the screen, through emaciated slits
And I am sick. Yes. This is the way it must be.
--January 8, 2005
