Ken Mode - Words Not To Say To The Queen

Fattening the wind, and sleek self-fulfilled punishment takes hold. Tagged for the day, as accomplishments become unbearable tasks. What kind of torture have you lain out for me, oh deepest of desires? I am beckoning at your door, following the augmented mist in dire concentration. Create me an enemy who lies beyond the mirror. An external motive who suits such spite, building strength rather than this internalized decay. Put me on the edge of my toes, reflex being more than apparent, and consume this threat of character. Putting word count on hold. How reassuring that the panic comes from within; fluttering, choking, racing through time, with fluctuations dimming perceptions. A fitting approach for a coward. Emphasis always seems to be lost on cause, and I've lost the energy to take initiative this time. Sometimes it's nothing more than a clean shirt and a familiar pair of shoes. It always seems like a blind search. It's frustrating seeing some cope so well, while I stumble and slip. You can call it "soul" searching, if it suits you. And here I'm perched; stagnant shades of blue and beige, speakers, lost souls; white noise. Living on borrowed time.