this is it.
By loving me you are teaching me to love myself.
I want to sit and smoke a joint, make a flower crown from the vegetation. Daisies and those wonderful purple columbines. Drink just one too many rum and cokes and pretend snickers and I are pirates. Give me my DULL-CHAY sunglasses, my fuzzy faux fur Dior shoulder bag and call it day. Don't tell me there's no love in her sky when Van Gogh can paint the night like that. Soon my insides will turn to mod podged tissue paper...
This Is It? This Is It?
...And Then What?
But I am still horrible, when people become muted; their feelings stay the same. So has it come to this now? I am just an aspend tree with tangled roots; dying in winter and blooming in summer.