recurring thought in the peripheries of my skull

"i'm sorry, i think i really do like him/them/it! i just need to think it over some more."

not sick enough to not contemplate the poetry of death

chores for monday

the soft hum of an industrial heating system, a sticky exhale, the gasp of a breathe- a sweet unrest, silence under the stars, declarations and periods, sad eyes, streetlights and rain whispers in the indigo november night, immovable and flaccid under the span of track lights, ripped stocking, chapped lips, quiet coughs, a head rush and longing for revelation.

comme sisyphus

the most overused word is interesting. everydaythingone is interesting, you're interesting, having no class is interesting; everyone tells me i'm interesting. interesting is such a surface-level word; the author cannot dictate a specific feeling, cannot entertain book, thought, or each other.

so he uses interesting to tie down the anchor and purposefully injects some superficial meaning into the meaningless.

and i guess what i mean by meaningless is me. i'm nothing- just broken bones and heavy thoughts; what i speak on the surface- scintillating, irresistibly rich and spacious. i trade facts like commodities on the black market, set up brothels with the lines of plath and auden, and wait- carnivorously, salivating, dying for you to truckle, and buckle your knees.

my words are who i am and i am passed sloppily around the circle of men of the hearth. i feel so tired and used and you can't penetrate me because the me that i am is nothing- just air. 

best poetry

i'm so sick of hearing wimpy love poems. if you really want a challenge, write about happiness in the time of sadness.