(no subject)
5:30am.
There's cold sweat on my neck and arms, despite the heat and lack of airconditioning.
The postal service is keeping my backround thoughts at bay and my heart and feet in comforting rhythm.
I want so badly to believe that there is truth, that love is real. and i want life in every word, to the extent that its absurd.
beat beat
beat.
My hair is longer and black, with a little curl now, and i seem to have a sort of graceless air of floating about my body.
I am disconnected.
di s
c onne cte
d
i tried to draw, but my imagination is too abstract.
my friends are curled together upstairs on my bed
and i am
left here, alone in my own home.
seeking some solace in sybillance and alliteration and playing polysyndenton games
too tired to decide, too tired to scour the bitterness out of my heart in its entirety, some remains some
remains
the remains of ghosts
whom i would rather be left alone with
than two happy people curled together like one
solid ghost breath
in my bed.
why it is that we can't breath and touch comfort to each other
we divide and multiply
and loose part of our self each time.
am i whole sitting here watching the sun rise
and heat my tired body and bones
i write to create something of this moment
i write out of lostness
i write because i feel lost in my house
where are my ghosts who normally keep me company?
slightly scared, but not aching.
You know, the postal service is a really sweet band.
There's cold sweat on my neck and arms, despite the heat and lack of airconditioning.
The postal service is keeping my backround thoughts at bay and my heart and feet in comforting rhythm.
I want so badly to believe that there is truth, that love is real. and i want life in every word, to the extent that its absurd.
beat beat
beat.
My hair is longer and black, with a little curl now, and i seem to have a sort of graceless air of floating about my body.
I am disconnected.
di s
c onne cte
d
i tried to draw, but my imagination is too abstract.
my friends are curled together upstairs on my bed
and i am
left here, alone in my own home.
seeking some solace in sybillance and alliteration and playing polysyndenton games
too tired to decide, too tired to scour the bitterness out of my heart in its entirety, some remains some
remains
the remains of ghosts
whom i would rather be left alone with
than two happy people curled together like one
solid ghost breath
in my bed.
why it is that we can't breath and touch comfort to each other
we divide and multiply
and loose part of our self each time.
am i whole sitting here watching the sun rise
and heat my tired body and bones
i write to create something of this moment
i write out of lostness
i write because i feel lost in my house
where are my ghosts who normally keep me company?
slightly scared, but not aching.
You know, the postal service is a really sweet band.