There’s the angel nodding at me
Just as I was thinking about independence
Or commitment?
Well aren’t they the same thing, anyway.
The typewriter unnumbs my brain
Makes it lose its soft malleability
That Ancient Greeks so despise to this day.
I can be good in that frozen brain
But I can’t be well. She looks
At me and smiles like a cat
And I get scared of the feathers of her words.
The sand the figurine
The cancer
All a grainy, grinding noise in my hand
She sees through me
And I am left with no one I can hide from
To ease my separation anxiety.

The keep where I keep my own mind’s words
Is looking at me, rejected.
That is because the angel’s words I need so much, that whe-
-n they finally arrive I’ve got to grab them before they get the chance to pull and drag me.

Drag me. Type type type. And then you wonder why I started getting migraines.Thirty soon and every decade it gets deeper. The disturbance. The divergence. The ******* through the elements of the dullest childhood in the whole **** world.

The end of some kind of sense.