Blood ******, though blessed be my enemies
I've been doing fine lately, so maybe that's why there's less lines in my mind.
I've been lost imagining fingers on my spine, breath in my ear and your tongue on my lips.
Couldn't give a **** if my anxiety tells me to quit; that's what it said about writing but what keeps these lights on?
I'm a crisis but one that's running out of steam.
Soon I'm going to have to accept that I'm just fine and let this version of myself die.
Not sure why I keep holding on, I guess I kinda like the way the words flow when I let 'em.
But I'm getting older, another decade facing me from across a calendar flip.
Not quite "oh ****, this is it" levels of old but enough to realize I'm not sure what I want to be.
A year ago I wasn't so dead set on building a house and starting a family.
Now I want to be a grandfather with some goats in his yard, a pipe on his lips and too much knowledge to be allowed to live.
I kid, but only in the slightest.
Let my ****** be justified, just let it be far away.
Rather raise a kid and see them grow into their own while I water the garden of my own consciousness.
Grow some skills with lots of tender care and prosper properly in perfection permanently.