Four o'clock in the morning on a sunday, and you'd think that I was looking for something to believe in, in the way that my hands found sanctuary on the steering wheel.
I wrote poetry about salvation in the condensation on my windows, thinking that maybe if I was able to write it all down well, I'd feel brand new at dawn.
I think that it would be easier to just get up and keep going, but the farthest that I get is the nearest mountain, where I can see a bit more than I'm used to. It's like dangling over eternity. Autumn leaves falling, intermingled with the regret of past lives that I can still taste in the air.
Occasionally, I feel as though I'm begging to something that I don't believe in, to show itself in the serenity of nature, or maybe I'm just begging myself for some clarity.
I scraped my knuckles on the stone, losing grip climbing up the side, and it always strikes me as odd when I realize that I still bleed like everything else.
It's five o'clock in the morning on a sunday, and my fingers are tapping out some unknown beat on the faded jeans across my knees, and it's the closest that I'll ever be to god.
Dec 22, 2016
Dec 22, 2016 at 10:09 AM UTC
Four o'clock in the morning on a sunday, and you'd think that I was looking for something to believe in, in the way that my hands found sanctuary on the steering wheel.
I wrote poetry about salvation in the condensation on my windows, thinking that maybe if I was able to write it all down well, I'd feel brand new at dawn.
I think that it would be easier to just get up and keep going, but the farthest that I get is the nearest mountain, where I can see a bit more than I'm used to. It's like dangling over eternity. Autumn leaves falling, intermingled with the regret of past lives that I can still taste in the air.
Occasionally, I feel as though I'm begging to something that I don't believe in, to show itself in the serenity of nature, or maybe I'm just begging myself for some clarity.
I scraped my knuckles on the stone, losing grip climbing up the side, and it always strikes me as odd when I realize that I still bleed like everything else.
It's five o'clock in the morning on a sunday, and my fingers are tapping out some unknown beat on the faded jeans across my knees, and it's the closest that I'll ever be to god.
