empty lightbulbs are bad ideas.

power on

i remember that ever-so somber spiral staircase of a storm; oh, don't think i'll ever forget the macabre sequence of high-voltage events that forever scarred my luminosity: your weathered rhetoric tripped the stratosphere, and The Sky slid down a flight of frightening silhouettes. thunderclouds climbed through our ozone layer, precipitating the downfall of us. your capricious bolts overcharged and crashed into my murky plane-of-thought. i'm afraid of the grotesque shadows surging through our intertwined veins, yet the whimsical flashes of (im)possibility only blind my hexed eyes from subtle verity.

how many romantic addicts does it take to screw in a lightbulb?
who cares?
you'll never screw me, so just give up now!

do you see my funnybone shaking?
you think your jokes are so fucking clever, huh?
well, i'll have you know:
i popped my humerus out of its socket–
but that wasn't for you.
i shoved a bad idea in its electric socket–
but that wasn't for you.
i packed my suitcase full of broken lightbulbs,
threatening to move to the seventeenth century
when candlesticks didn't float above my head–
but no, that wasn't for you either.

i did it so i'd never have to face the mocking dark again.
i did it so i'd never have to face your face again.
i did it because static hearts can't stay inactive forever,
because your mouth is shocking enough without its batteries,
and because my warranty only lasts twelve heartbreaks.

at least that's what i'll keep telling myself anyway...

/poweroff