my heart bleeds

as i ride the bUs

and someone whispers in my ear

that make-believe is hyper-real

and that is hyper-trUe

since i know no reality and only live in projections;

the stitches are never enoUgh

bUt i pick at them

and everyone tells me to stop picking at them

bUt my fingers re-imagine them as gUitar strings

I mean heart-strings

– whatever that means –

bUt there never is mUsic;

i jUst notice

that time is wasted and all spaces are wrong

so don’t ask me how i know

becaUse i don’t i jUst sUppose ,

and i propose

we never go home again;

and i never go home again;


jUst live in city lights and ignore the aching

of whatever the fUck being a stranger means

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