her memories became my memories.
it was as if the wind carried them to me,
only seeds, and they grew inside
becoming part of my mouth,
my skin.
it is only before bed
that they emerge.
i might remember a castle wall or a hillside of wildflowers.
what is it? what has the wind brought me?
the flowers have skulls in their petals.
today is the kind of day any artist would be thankful for. the ugly robotic self has given way, a mere machine, to the fantastic heart. i remembered my favorite children's book. it somehow bubbled up from where it was buried. i even recognized my limitations and cared no more at the discovery - no pain, or heat, just a blue nuetrality.
them fuckin' monkies doing their work....
i know not what they do.
a door slams.
dinner is served.
get ready for the fourth of july.
get ready for all that bullshit.
(his warning has been given.)
i will scramble to find the proper cage.
i will crawl until every last window is covered.
he is human. he craves others. it is normal.
only your years are not.
the way you hid. the way you swallowed.
the best anyone can hope for
is a package on the doorstep
or the moment before the reveal.
only then, will the mind trick itself in believing whatever dream
it holds dear.
it is like christmas.
it is like miles of floor have been covered
in the waste that follows
after
the last gift has been opened.
that is the real truth. he told me.
look no further.
it was as if the wind carried them to me,
only seeds, and they grew inside
becoming part of my mouth,
my skin.
it is only before bed
that they emerge.
i might remember a castle wall or a hillside of wildflowers.
what is it? what has the wind brought me?
the flowers have skulls in their petals.
today is the kind of day any artist would be thankful for. the ugly robotic self has given way, a mere machine, to the fantastic heart. i remembered my favorite children's book. it somehow bubbled up from where it was buried. i even recognized my limitations and cared no more at the discovery - no pain, or heat, just a blue nuetrality.
them fuckin' monkies doing their work....
i know not what they do.
a door slams.
dinner is served.
get ready for the fourth of july.
get ready for all that bullshit.
(his warning has been given.)
i will scramble to find the proper cage.
i will crawl until every last window is covered.
he is human. he craves others. it is normal.
only your years are not.
the way you hid. the way you swallowed.
the best anyone can hope for
is a package on the doorstep
or the moment before the reveal.
only then, will the mind trick itself in believing whatever dream
it holds dear.
it is like christmas.
it is like miles of floor have been covered
in the waste that follows
after
the last gift has been opened.
that is the real truth. he told me.
look no further.
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