(no subject)
my hands show motions marking of what has passed between them. what i held, back, what i attempted to hold. a light headed morning walk towards a heavy day, shoulders carry no burdens but they provide shelter for many of my friends sleep phrases, i grasp and hold the moments they forget, this is that instant where the intensity of the words of the song cause my eyes to half close and desire an opportunity to prove myself. or at least show skin unashamed in the twilight tone sounding out mediocrity syllable by embarrassed syllable. ive made love to my favorite poet, so i guess i am living the dream. but i am still a poet without a city without a style without the skill it should require of me. passion override the shortcomings? we will see, the credits are so unfamiliar at this current event.