(no subject)
Its getting harder these days. I keep my life in the freezing cold tunnel, alone and thoughtful. The sun's rays, peaking through the creviced ceiling, still reflects off of my hair, but this gloomy design is poor and light years from what it should be. Here I scribble on brick walls, bold and prominent, but no one bothers to acknowledge. They erase it before even wiping the dust from their eyes. It's beauty is tragic and gut wrenching like a broomstick handle to the gut. These gutters are deep and dirty. They grab at my feet as I walk the streets, unknowing that they are making me their own, transforming me into cement covered with a 100 years of sweat and element. They snatch like fiending monsters at worn out shoes and bony legs. I sit there bar-assed and yellow stained until my feet are icicles and the cigarette smoke ceases to warm my fingers. I'm breaking at the joints, snapping one by one until all thats left is a hazy green polluted smoke and the faint smell of exhaust and exhaustion.