Truthfully none of us are even asking for joy. We are just asking for a little peace. We are praying for the world to hurt us a little less, for our tired hearts to have a little rest.
collecting figments dust motes suspended in shafts of, insight pinned penned like butterflies on display baubles hung there slightly askew unable to convey -that which isn’t said was never said
it doesn’t matter why it ended these almost explanations skirting around the margins paraphrasing repentance and unspoken substitutions exposed -artfully yet bereft meaning
every one says they are fucked up with this or that, running around dying like street cats with no fucks to give and 9 lives to live
what if i told you i’m fine; content, ready to die?
you’d get weird, you’d look away, find a window, hope the curtain was open, find the blue sky look away from death’s eye
what if i started to scream, LET ME GO, and what if that window was a mirror in a dirty bathroom down the hallway from a bedroom where the covers are dirty and the pillows stained with yesterdays toss and turns
you’d get weird, sleep on the couch, forget about it all till the morning comes again
