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alysha-l-scottPoems
My days are mostly wasted by thoughts of moments that have happened and also those that have not. My mind is mostly cluttered with fantasies and heaven, red skies and smiling magpies, murdered by the loneliness of hell. If memory is mostly futile, the future must be so If everything is fleeting, I must be running barefoot, naked in the snow: Toward what? Or who? Or me? Or why? Why does every angle seem cavernous and sharp? Why does every body fat with levity birth such a jagged mind? The Thing must fill its stomach as much as its head, we are gluttons for ourselves, we might as well be called cannibals instead.
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Oct 17, 2014
Oct 17, 2014 at 7:25 PM UTC
Or Why
My days are mostly wasted by thoughts of moments that have happened and also those that have not. My mind is mostly cluttered with fantasies and heaven, red skies and smiling magpies, murdered by the loneliness of hell. If memory is mostly futile, the future must be so If everything is fleeting, I must be running barefoot, naked in the snow: Toward what? Or who? Or me? Or why? Why does every angle seem cavernous and sharp? Why does every body fat with levity birth such a jagged mind? The Thing must fill its stomach as much as its head, we are gluttons for ourselves, we might as well be called cannibals instead.
alysha-l-scott
Written by
alysha-l-scott
American
Oct 17, 2014
Oct 17, 2014 at 7:25 PM UTC
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