Suck the poison out now or cast off your limbs later
A cold dead winter's night is knock knock knocking on our door, demanding our first born or first love. Whichever comes first.
The mighty Oak and brother Birch tell their sister Willow the secrets of sanity
The secret that is meditation in cold times
Cold times, hard times, times where time seems irrelevant
Lonesome times
Naked in the woods bearing everything for everyone
Wishing no one
Cryptic plots of blackmail
Approach with caution, handle with care
This is all meaningless, this is all worthless
This is all. This is all.
Nervous people with nervous habits are spitting out words without ideas into machines that once again are spit across miles upon miles to those impatiently waiting their turn to speak ill of their nervous habit causing lives they have chosen.
Worried thoughts concerning events still folded waiting to unfold, nonexistent, perhaps inevitable though there are no certainties.
Leather clings unforgivingly to uncovered skin, unless it's saturated with sweat.
Walt Whitman, If God is a Mother you are her patron saint son in law.
Lucy is a curious woman
She'll make an atheist believe in God/Love/The Universe
She'll have a christian denouncing the Devil's existence
A "sane" man questions his sanity
A mad man questions his madness
Beauty can be questionable but Love leaves one fulfilled like fallen leaves clinging together burning together
Naked laughter pours from prison cell windows while winter sets in outside
Peering into the dark corners fixed on angelic and borderline demonic figures
Stream of consciousness and inner monologues make up my hemisphere of thought
I have a tired soul inside that shows on the outside
Swimming in a sea of post zen awareness, drowning in definitions of meaning that are meaningless
The grass grows because we know it will always rain another day and another day we will die and another day the grass and dirt will cover our faces
No comments:
Post a Comment