Mr. Ann Thropic

dusk swarms like that pain you get when you cry-
down in your throat somewhere it burns and cracks like the fade at the end-
this is your life-
something meloncholy in an off high note like C maybe-
there are signs on the turnpike at night like C maybe-
I don't think this stuff up it just comes to me-
crouching in the corner of your kitchen at night long after you've gone to sleep-
deep like a fishbowl and a lot less humorous-
you'll forget this happened and be a lot less humorous-
you'll catch yourself singing in the shower or in the car on the way to work-
something meloncholy in an off high note like C maybe-
this is hell wrapping on your keychain like a kid falling asleep,
their hands just kinda feel around and rub whatever is there till they fall off the edge of sleep-
you'll fall off one day-
off your so called high horse-
I'll name it for you-
let's go with "the christ who dies on the flames of infamy"-
sure it's a long name but if once it became famous,
then we could rename it " the so called horse formally known as the christ who dies on the flames of infamy"-
my point being, well I lost my train of of thought....choo choo-
this reminds of picture frames, the ones in stores that you'll never buy and never shop in again-
you'll see me there-
cashing in the chips, calling it quits and then calling it other names that I can't think of right now-
your failing and following me now as you always have so don't write anymore-
no more fishbowl jokes-
no more high notes-
no more horses-
no more kitchen corners or keychains-
I'm leaving silently through the backdoor-
I'll come around the front and rewall paper your bathroom as a token of the friendship we never had-