(no subject)
my hands are cracked and bleeding from the near forgotten cruelty of the winters wind.
these days, punching bags and forced innuendos breath through me, not quite spoken or thought through just assumed.
and whenever i try to put ephemeralities into words, they slip through the cracks; suddenly it is something else all together.
confusion. regret. wishes. muscles. cliches.
it doesn't fit.
these days, punching bags and forced innuendos breath through me, not quite spoken or thought through just assumed.
and whenever i try to put ephemeralities into words, they slip through the cracks; suddenly it is something else all together.
confusion. regret. wishes. muscles. cliches.
it doesn't fit.