and I can taste the air; it's thick and unforgiving attitude run down my throat grabbing and stabbing what they please. The decaying piano in my mind continues to play the same blissful song in my mind and I'm praying that my savior would just put a gun in my hands.
I've stayed up forever writing and searching. Just writing and searching. Writing, searching, and hoping. Hoping this faith was not all in vain, that this valley is not futile.
But my narcissistic attitude has great cause for fleeting hearts. The self-absorbed blackness in the deepest parts of my heart has robbed the compassion your arms once brought me. It's the fatal habit of being myself, of acting on my characteristics from birth that has caused my unfathomable drop from faithful to faithless. And in my faithless I sleep alone.
His hand reaches out for me. It's not like I've been abandoned on the side of some dusty, Kansas dirt road. His hand is here. Reaching out through the blackness my eyes have created and I can feel the warmth. My arms and legs are heavy with pride, but my head feels weightless.
My heart waits in eager expectation. Anxious. Patient, hoping to experience something more then this cancer in my lungs.
It's Monday here and I'm one of the sleeping. And more then likely I'll have to drag my own ankles into battle.
And more then likely I'll do what I do best and ignore the glasses you've given and stick to being blind.
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