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Array
(
[sid] => 31628
[catid] => 1
[aid] => mick
[title] => oroborus of desensation
[time] => 2004-01-14 00:53:39
[hometext] =>
[bodytext] => the more i cut the less i feel yeah, the blood's dripping but it doesn't feel like mine doesn't taste like mine nothing real here the scars aren't home anymore just stories about someone else someone i used to be a life i used to live the scars are an autobiography written by someone else's hand now that it's too late i'm getting to the truth i'm getting to the root i'm seeing that the ugly is everywhere not just in the things i hate numb is just a memory now so far removed from myself that i can't even feel the loss i can't feel the emptiness the hole where i used to be (now that i know all the answers i've forgotten all the questions all alone with all the knowledge i could ask for what good is it now?) they came today to check on me my mouth smiled and gave them the words the ones that they wanted to here but "I" didn't say anything just sat inside and watched and wished that i could sleep i watch hands grope you hands that are no longer mine i watch someone have you someone i used to be (or someone who used to be me?) and it doesn't hurt like i thought it would it doesn't feel like anything at all am i writing this? or is he/she/it? am i even real anymore? or just a dream? the Ororborus of desensation eating myself to form the path the knot that becomes naught it sheds the skin of "I" and becomes something that is done with me [comments] => 4 [counter] => 272 [topic] => 43 [informant] => Cancer [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 0 [ratings] => 0 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => oops )
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