I was carrying a bag, ripped at the seams
I was punching visions, that seemed all too mean
If I could have feigned, I'd have chosen brevity
But I had words to say...
after all, didn't it stink too much of reality?
I went on to battle ennui
I tore it down, but it left a scar on me
Now I keep laughter gas at the ready
I wear it like a super hero who has no alternate identity.
I came across the end of everything
but it's got nothing on me
It's a poem captive in another poem
a dream ripping through the seams
that grips and claws at me.
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And here I'd almost given up on February. You'd think that once you'd gone ahead and told the months the roles that they'd p...
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I never had a traumatic childhood. Well, the usual trauma stuff, you know. Not enough to write a book about or blame everything wrong in my ... -
Been hiding. Firstly there was the birthday recovering. Then there were other birthdays and recovering from them. Then there was random merr...
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