I like the scar on my stomach a few inches below my belly button a little slice from a burn from a stove I leaned against because I was cooking in my underwear because I was happy and laughing and at my parents house and it’s just a nice little piece of nostalgia on my belly
As a college student you’re either struggling academically, financially, or spiritually. Or all 3
all of them.
I have to go on this fucking no sugar diet to clear up my fucking skin and I’m really struggling with the concept so if you could remind me of things worth living for aside from the plethora of sweets which I so passionately salivate for…it would be nice?
Coxcombs and Charlatan’s: When no roads, lead to home
A rolling stone, down dirty cobbled roads
From the pumpkin patch, near the slaughter house in the north
Constant bleating, constant weeding, out
Those less deserving, letting moss grow where it grows.
He sees in green, he sees through dilated screens, he sees in colors
No other ever sees, maybe they aren’t listening, maybe they aren’t looking,
But he is pleased, with the wave of newborn leaves.
Struggling, caterwauling, sprawling,
for fingers to catch a grip, of an icy drift
that rolls from his mouth as the tide, breathing.
New leaves, exoskeletal groupings, instinctively
Attaching like barnacles to a frame.
An old frame, wooden in its grace,
That holds within a mirror, reflecting his gaze:
And the gold that reflects, reflects the image of death
And the cross melts the mouse,
And the tired go to sleep,
And the cats eyes glow golden in his nightmarish dreams,
And the whole world is waiting – to see.
When he opens his mouth, no words will come out:
And his neck would elope with the wreckage below,
And then he would remove his smoking orange orb,
And the filth would spill out like a centerfold,
And the water would run grey with cigarette stains,
And the trees would fall into rivers like those doe eyed daughters
That he fought so hard for, that fell into human arms built stronger.
He would dance, anxious and removed
Into an early grave, dancing, not sleeping
Into a sunburst orange tomb, where a pale hand waits
All he ever anticipated, all he ever chose to chase
A pale hand waits, and her voice like water
Flowing to relieve the palanquin carriers of their weight
And she would say, “Kiss me until your heart stops,”
And he would open his mouth,
His heart would fall out,
And rest there indefinitely,
Covered in dirt -
In a hole in the ground.