Im mad at myself for feeling this feel that I feel
And mad that these feelings translate into
Something other than real
Its really not a big deal I tell myself
While watching my haphazard descent
Into madness wipe away any joy or gladness
And then I envy tunes that embolden
And fit my moods, wishing I could
Express my insanity with a definitive gravity
I listen enchantingly to the raspy singing of
Fiona Apple’s lyrical pattering and teeter
Between hating her understanding
(of me) and hating my enchantment
I’m rancid
At waste - and stretching out
My fall from grace
