There's an earthquake going on inside me, my chest is the fault line, My stomach is a shoe lace factory, and a tornado decided today was a great day to do tornado things.
Ya know? It really ***** when your lungs turn to vacuums and not the good kind, the kind of **** when you can hear sand knock around trying to find a way down. There's a sandstorm in your lungs and all you need is an inhaler, but breathing is easy so you don't need an inhaler.
My mom taught me how to handle this. She handles this. She taught me cold weather can freeze this over. But when this fails it can turn into tar and we know that tar is hotter than ****.
Are you aware that it doesn't work out when your stomach becomes a shoelace factory and a tornado happens to do tornado things? My mom handles this. I asist. Her guts turn to strings and don't do very gutsy things. Her pancreas called in sick. That was 3 years ago. Her cheeks aren't very cheeky. Her bones show through her skin.
Every now and then I feel the ground start to rumble and I wait for us to fall in.
It's been a year since I've yelled at paper. Moving on from a tree that weeps and false hope in the sidewalk, I've been promoted to cigarette smoke and dust on the walls.
Asthma has come back from vacation and is here to stay. Being woken up from lack of breath isn't my favorite "good morning".
My bloodstream tells no tale of my addictions. I don't count how long I've been sober, if you give it a number it'll bring it back to life, and who wants to beat a dead horse over and over. Besides, it feels good to **** clean.
My right wrist and left knee have come down with a cold and my viens have water damage. My tongue tripped over my teeth leaving a ripped taste bud. I can never get comfortable because I am positive that Im going off the edge and everything else is always just so dammed positive. Just feed me medicine, and ill see you in the morning.
This is an oldie. Don't know what to write about anymore
I'm getting desperate cuz I'm getting distant. The royal coachmen is the trailer park I used to live in. Pinecones, stray cats and the candy man. In the kitchen I dug a hole for a mouse to live in. For God's sake momma, could you puke a little quieter, don't let dad know you're sick cuz this house isn't a home when you're gone. Cold mornings ****** doo blankets and hospital beds. Dad tells me mom is sick again. The hospital is no place to live in. God ****** dad step up, make this a place to live in.
At 5 years old, my momma asks her momma to move in.
I'm getting distant cuz I'm getting desperate. A little town named Charleston.
When you walk up the side walk and you see the willow, just know it's weeping because it's heard everything.
Just to let you know there's a piece of glass in the side walk, not diamond. I know that cuz I bent too many butter knives trying to make a fortune.
Yellow walls, barn cats and god.
It took me 12 years to find somewhere to believe in.
I forced myself to write this I hate writers block