(no subject)
I've been writing here in this box for hours now, but no words will stick to it. They all turn sour in my eyes. Rose colored glasses turned black with regret make every thing I write ugly and foolish.
There another hour and another dozen hundred words written and cut away. Everything I want to say melts from the page and fades in a wash of mocking silent laughter.
I thought that time would heal me, but the farther I go from there the less I feel my own breath or blood. Passions ebb and wane and shrink.
There another hour and another dozen hundred words written and cut away. Everything I want to say melts from the page and fades in a wash of mocking silent laughter.
I thought that time would heal me, but the farther I go from there the less I feel my own breath or blood. Passions ebb and wane and shrink.