I
am
the
eighth
deadly
sin.

Bones ache
from moving fast paced,
but never fast enough.
I am too young to be this old,

too old to be this young.

i hope you find me
on the tongue
of every girl you kiss,
at the bottom of
your cup of tea,
in the sand
that lines the backseat of your car,
in the moments
after 11pm,
in everything
that belonged to you and me.

A lot of time spent
having miscellaneous conversations with the air.
Even stupid questions like "how's your day" acting as if it'd give an answer, or, even more,
a whisper of inspiration
It's an obligation, or, maybe a delegation, or, a confirmation?
that we will create a masterpiece before insane peace
With a piece of our minds becoming a little less peaceful by the day.
Soon our minds will turn into violent catapults hurling out sentence after sentence making our paper bleed
                                                     Black, Blue, Red, Gray
Joining a cult created by the letters we created ourselves
falling into the abyss these stanzas and paragraphs invite us into
And don't get me wrong, it sounds terrible, but it's home.
There's no place like it.
Where these words are so much more than words,
they're family.
But frequently, we get into arguments that erupt into something sinister
and our desks become littered with papers that wilt and wither into nothing more than liters upon liters
of a type of alcoholic beverage that'll tempt us into becoming outspoken drunkards
But that's the goal:
*to be outspoken.

You are a rainstorm in an Arizona summer.
I don't know whether I should hide
Or bathe in you.