I woke up artall my pieces linked with ink and glue
I burn my heart in my sleeve and I forgot all the dreams where you hang your head
and set my heart to the sea and hold onto seventeen dreams of the sea
Build it all from the floor to the ceiling to the walls
a pit for fire and listen
I like how the fan feels on my cheek, I am against the wall;
Lost in the same spin cycle
Cognition and stickers
I got hit hard in the chest all of it starts spilling out over the edges and I am jittery as J
une bug. The telltale quivering in my limbs let me know that it may be possible that the nerve damage they swore had been remedied had not been. I look at it all the railways and tunnels and the fever foul water. There are fewer and fewer reasons to stop moving besides the simple exercise of will over tissue. I pour a dime out and rail. Voices saying nothing overlap lauding impossible braveries.
It's exhausting; I always hope that it will be exhilarating, it's not, it never is. I question myself, am I washed out? exhausted? I don't seem to be. My faculties are functioning lucidly and I am if anything gaining a more clear perspective of expression.
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