In the last few weeks, the competition boils over and Im reminded of what I've chosen to leave behind, not forever, but when I awaken again from this poison.
You are lazy and suffering, still like cold, cold ice, dead behind the sockets till I climb out of my skin.
The sunshine is peeking, but yet Im barely breathing,
breathing from this fog and paranoia within. All over nothing by puzzles and willful desires that turn to black. I wish I could write about daisies and forgive my hands for writing these things,
but what art can be created from simple thoughts and uniformed minds.