For once I think I'll speak clearly. My hands are a megaphone.
I feel like my legs are buried in paper up to the iliopsoas.
do you feel it?
I am improper syntax incarnate. My hands are up to my mouth.
I feel like I call to you and you won't visibly position yourself.
do you feel it?
What a tragic life to be terribly lonely so overtly by my own design.
Words I should easily speak disguise in the esoteric words I write.
i feel you.
i do
in fact like an acid trip dusted over days i hang onto every letter
and in the subtle twisting of the pen your vibrations enter my eyes
and in the drumming of your zealous fingers against the keyboard
and in the tapping at the glass as you ignore your text messages
your affecting verse travels my arterials and fills my chest with life
are we alike?
I can't help but ask it. I sit puffing cherry pie,
feeling quite abandoned. You know the story.
Do you feel absolutely sundered by your insides?
Can't stop the gnawing unless you actualize your leaden brain.
well adjusted to deep addiction to discord.
and i join your audience in admiration of the grace absent in myself
The End
I appreciate the **** out of you all. I wouldn't write if I didn't read, and all your words are worth repeating. All of you. Your words are a ******* blessing to such a casually deteriorating, increasingly dreary world. When I'm feeling dead, your words connect, and I want you to know that. It's a home away from home. Spill it, spill it.
