Southern air

Let me just tell you another lie, now all I was thinking can fit in a hash tag,
ooh that ass
It’s consequencal that I got my mind playing twister with how I want to feel and the way, I will continue to feel, when you pass in glance, it’s hindsight, I make to the state at least one time, so when it collapses together, I won’t be so rugged, unable to lift myself up at least one more, damn time.

Advertisements

Entry I should do this for real

Through each two hour low I get lower, more so with morale, wondering how positive happens, when inspiration is difficult, pulling of myself(just to get up), while trying to aspire tomorrow lights,

It’s like flying without a wing, to keep aloft, we strand ourselves in the brightest or darkest times, giving or taken all of it.
We let that hit the mental and we give a fuck less or care more it’s a two way street; whether its dirt, brick or paved. We face it together in absolute; we go absolutely into whatever, we decide. We go together in our own time. We go,
We go absolutely,
Against authority or with conformity we love or we don’t let the felt happen,
And bring us tomorrow in whatever we seek, and whatever we bind ourselves towards, create yourself!

What we allow

I say our tongue is dead, we talk in devalued terms, with paraphrased photos, I might be incorrect in spelling and form on occasion;
We let our actions come from shadows, where we let speech patterns, speak, from diseased trees and sick animals.

A civil nuisance follows,
Of uniform,
While his home is coved, in cloth, just the same as you
Pretense is set and yet,
A deliquescence exist in a holsters, belt loop, yet they rest, but those galled, recall the past better then us and then the present is presented to us.

Let me show you my style

It’s arm over arm, bent in towards chest, paddle thick through the waters depth, and then all oxygen is spent.
Methodical life seems so; learn hurdles, part with the set unused, poem verse: you want chorus but how can words form from hurt, I’m on the side of those who know not of what you do, till you do so plain view, fair to argue the point of angelic or mere spiteful soul. Not hiding but not for this persons feelings. To do so abruptly. Pass the turning point and we argue. If this man can do, and withstand another indiscretion, fight the fluid now hold on, pain ends.

Wrote choreograph words for passion because I so feel swirly on a travel all I know is how so I hold you. Other then this contemplative statement, it shows the direction of life is forbearing,

Here’s to

Those midnight dances the lost fly away in,
The three am picnics for flirty teens,
The cigarette butts homeless share at four,
The Casper’s of everyday, the ones we’re never sure of to see again.
Here’s to the lost, and hopeless
HOPE

image

o n a n
l     i   d
d.   n s
Here’s to music that’s saved me more times then I realized, here’s to finding words for pages, here’s to you for carrying on your back all that you have to.

The fight to bury you.

This writer; Hannah Brencher, is brilliant. Lovely

hannah brencher.

large-3

The salesman at the AT&T store wasn’t equipped to handle me.

He’s equipped to handle phones. And tablets. And angry customers who drop their phones and crack the screens. I am 100% sure that he is equipped to handle such things. But me? No, certainly not.

I imagined he’d probably gotten up that morning and slugged a Dunkin’ Donuts coffee without any plans of ever encountering an anxious malcontent in a bright red hat who was hoping to get an upgrade and a clean slate– all in one sitting.

“Do you have everything backed up?” he asked me.

“I don’t think so,” I shrugged and looked off to the window. “Does it really matter? Do people actually do that?”

“Ummm, well…” he looked at me, as if staring long enough might be the key to me cracking a grin and telling him I was just kidding. I wasn’t kidding.

“Yea…

View original post 1,076 more words