I write on anything. It's an obsession. I look around and I dig deep into my thoughts. I write and pour my thoughts on cheap, crumpled pieces of paper. Then throw it away. Along with my past.
I typically wander into the tropics of my skull Where the need for adventure lies And the thoughts that keep me alive are caged up I hear if you stay away for the tropical parts of your mind Your dome turns as thin and fragile as paper And all the thoughts that keep you sane-- die
my mind is filled with shadows and weakness and he is sleeping in his bed 6 miles away.
walking distance; running distance.
every pore of my scarred skin is filled with missing him and alcohol. every dent in my flesh was raised by werewolves; they only turned red at night. my eyes only flow oceans at the hours I feel emotionless.
my mother puts crayons and coloring books in the backpacks of her children. says that when they are angry, they should write down what they feel in the color that fits best. now when I go to school it is all Ticonderoga #2