"but i am regular"...
...minus all of that.
Yes. That.
I am not even joking with you all right now. I want to wrench each germ out of my body and personally beat the living shit out of them. I've gone through maybe twelve bottles of water because my throat is dead. It hurts to exist. And I don't even mean that in the incredibly emoish way that I usually would. :P
I carry his words in my pocket, you know. They're so heavy. Like each is worth its weight in gold. Or like I'm carrying a sun or a galaxy or maybe the entire universe, and that wouldn't be too off would it. Except then I start thinking I like the universe but he messes with my words and connections like that give me goosebumps. I press my fingers to them ones that hit the hardest, like I want them embedded into my skin- an emotional imprint. I want tattooes of black lettering across my every inch. I don't want to forget them now that I know them.
But they're just old words, old light, beamed out ages ago.
People have been telling me I haven't been making much sense lately which is odd because I feel like I'm being the most coherent I've been in a while. Yah so I haven't run out on you yet doesn't mean the cabin fevers not there. And it doesn't mean I'm not still me.
There are certain moments when I think, yes, the world is wonderful and beautiful and I want to lie on the ground and just take it all in. But there are just so many moments when all I see is filth. Dirty minds&souls&cities. I guess I could work on scrubbing it all away but something tells me one day I'll love what I see. So.
Yes. You are regular. Ordinary, even.
I still get to wondering, laugh andor frown lines?
i'm not talking planets and galaxies.
The Wizard of Oz still makes me sad. I miss her. And her shiny red shoes.
There's no place like home. So why are you gone?
Yes. That.
I am not even joking with you all right now. I want to wrench each germ out of my body and personally beat the living shit out of them. I've gone through maybe twelve bottles of water because my throat is dead. It hurts to exist. And I don't even mean that in the incredibly emoish way that I usually would. :P
I carry his words in my pocket, you know. They're so heavy. Like each is worth its weight in gold. Or like I'm carrying a sun or a galaxy or maybe the entire universe, and that wouldn't be too off would it. Except then I start thinking I like the universe but he messes with my words and connections like that give me goosebumps. I press my fingers to them ones that hit the hardest, like I want them embedded into my skin- an emotional imprint. I want tattooes of black lettering across my every inch. I don't want to forget them now that I know them.
But they're just old words, old light, beamed out ages ago.
People have been telling me I haven't been making much sense lately which is odd because I feel like I'm being the most coherent I've been in a while. Yah so I haven't run out on you yet doesn't mean the cabin fevers not there. And it doesn't mean I'm not still me.
There are certain moments when I think, yes, the world is wonderful and beautiful and I want to lie on the ground and just take it all in. But there are just so many moments when all I see is filth. Dirty minds&souls&cities. I guess I could work on scrubbing it all away but something tells me one day I'll love what I see. So.
Yes. You are regular. Ordinary, even.
I still get to wondering, laugh andor frown lines?
i'm not talking planets and galaxies.
The Wizard of Oz still makes me sad. I miss her. And her shiny red shoes.
There's no place like home. So why are you gone?