the cycle of it. a möbius dream.

To grip tight or to lose another day.

Pick apart my insides and find out how much the nothing weighs: a ton.

From the bed, a thin line, which side does she wake?

Moon’s around the corner, and her sick side doesn’t play for fun.

If I’ve shoved away,

I hope its served to imply my struggle not to suffocate.

Shut the shade that impolitely invites the sun to stay,

And drudge through the day the way a rip tide cuts a wave.

It’s mine, but i’ll char my puppet chains

In time, maybe then my heart can come to change.

I fist fight with my head so much it blinds me to what I waste.

Insights all around me, but I’ve let spite pump my veins.

To live life fully we have to learn to love our shape.

If mine's to twist like mobius I’d no longer be stuck in place.

Cause even if it splits us up, the rips tied one and same.

All we need is to grip tight.