Sometime in August (minus the pig fetis in a jar and the psychopath)

another entry i made a while back {on paper}
decided to post it too. again idreallyk why. but fuck it up and deal with life i guess would be the correct comment to make to any inquiries about why i did it [in the first place]

The Moon is not made of cheese, its {she's} make of ice cold rock and the glowing Warmth of the sun [ i bet i can guess what the rock is. but im {tree}stump{ed} at who the sun is]

She's leaving.
She's basically already gone. {not that u could have said she was ever really there}
The Countdown of seven begins Today.
She'll float away, down the Stream,
You never imagined her skipping away through a field,
but thats the Poloroid in My Head.
Black and White- exactly the way she Sees the world,
even though she's neither, but instead somewhere in the gray between,
just like the Rest of us.
But as she drifts, her slim, gray Figure becomes Blurry;
unrecognizable.
just a face that Passed through our {kn}ives (or was it us that passed through hers...)
She's one I'll remember though.
Her cynical Humor, giant Smile, and the the black hair that Falls Down her face,
Hiding her soul from the the world.