I often smoke these days
to fill my lungs
and **** the flowers
I once planted there for you.
I often get high these days
on the freedom I find
in my new life without you.

The sunset was the kind that was like syrup dripping from the skies and if you were to drink it it would be the ambrosia that tasted like a life time

There is a forest,
Under the sea,
To which I desperately
Long to see.

I have this tightness in my chest
The anxiety swallows me whole
An overwhelming sense of unrest
As I wonder what I did to cause the pull
The pull away from me
I did something wrong I can feel it
But the mistake I cannot see
What
Did
I
Do?
What hurt you?
I will wait for your reply
But this anxiety is causing
the worst sorta high

Today I saw the quote
“If it’s about survival... isn’t a little agony worth it?”

As if agony is something so small and easy to bare. As if it is a stone in our pockets that just adds a little weight as we are forced to march on this path that has no way out and no way back. When it’s more like this pressure that surrounds us and pushes our feet into the ground as we wade through this quick sand in attempt to make any progress, to move forward even an inch. In attempt to avoid being swallowed whole. But at the same time we just want to sink to the bottom and let the sticky sand muffle all sounds included our own. So we can let this pressure push us down as we sink further and further holding our breath waiting for that moment when we reach the bottom, just to see what’s there. And when we finally inhale we find our lungs have been filled with sand all along, it’s just this time it fills our eyes and ears as well. But perhaps a “little agony is worth it”. Maybe we should swallow our pain and continue forever forward as if we didn’t just swallow a red hot coal that’s now burning its way through our bodies and melting our will to continue as it goes. But no, let’s swallow it like a chalky pill that sticks to our throats and catches on it’s way down, but don’t worry, here’s a glass of sand to wash it down.