I am trying to keep my head above water... and avoid looking at you if i mistakenly do I will sink so deeply air will no longer be a familiarity not even a privilege simply nonexistent instead i will solely breathe you in
Idealism boards its boat and sails out to the ocean and its middle reach. Out as far as it will dare it takes its detached opportunity to yell its prayers back at the beach.
"Wouldn't it be better, if things were just [x] way?"
"The problem is that we're [here] when we should be [there]."
Both bare and shoed feet fist up the sand and shout shout, shout back -- They shout back,
"In the mid, your world is gold. Here on the land, everyone's stomping toes. On purpose. On accident. It happens. **** happens. As far as living goes, reality just is. So, sink with your conviction. We challenge form, train adaptability. Super humans laughing up from the tar. We've come so far. We've come so very far.
in another life i wear clay beneath my fingernails and linen pants around my hips fastened with a braided leather belt rescued from my mother’s closet one she wore in the eighties when she met my father on the seaside of france i carry flowers from the corner down a gum-stained sidewalk past the park i fell asleep in during one slow sunday afternoon there are cherry red stains on my pillow some from my lips, some not i’ve never been in love but i’ve never felt alone my nose is slender and my collarbones flaunt themselves beneath tanned skin i am someone who drinks ***** and orange juice while watering my plants a longhaired cat licks its paws in the windowsill as i lie ***** in the sunlight reading tolstoy and kerouac and obscure poetry introduced by the neighbor in 4F none of it matters i am just like a cloud like a creaking step i share myself only through spearmint breath and coffee dates here are my sweaty palms here are my uneven bangs you will never know me
What a dream of writers, Upon its grand galore? Lifting hands upon Poe, To ask forever more? An Ernest near his sea, Of Dante’s own heaven. Fun to see Angelou, With The loved Whitman be. My dear Plath of saving, Nestled on her pillows. So pleased to see the Frost, Odd this time of willows. Pleased my own time of miles, A spirit dream of Niles.