Therapy, work, and passion--but which is it most?
(I'm not a robot, but I'm also not Richard Brautigan)
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It’s not quite thoughts keeping me up at night. I wish it were thoughts. Coherent, brilliant, captivating, beautiful thoughts. Alas it’s not that. No. It’s emotions. Wordless, yet stretching infinitely and smashing the character count to oblivion.
By NJ Reed2 years ago in Poets
Spill it spill it spill it! Open up and spill it until it flows so therapeutic and thick like syrup Until it pours it pours it pours out with no remorse.
I dreamed a dream but what does it mean? Where was I going and where had I been. I recall a path paved over with a golden sheen. It was bright and bold like a story untold, but now it‘s not what it used to seem . I lost it.
The floorboards creak a song full of sorrow in rhythm with my tipping toes. Does she know of my late night escapades? My trysts with the telly? My wild romps with written words?
Internal struggles grapple within, like two gladiators clinging to the hope that murder and conquest will exalt them. It's a facade. A ruse. A clever trick that the mind plays to prop up its multiple concocted scenarios as being arbitrarily opposed.
Do you feel a fear that if you stay up all night with me That you won’t remember the day or what it means to be free? That in the Quiet of the night the world will just melt away?
