I remember those moments when my friend and spent 2 weeks house hopping. We spent our days and nights at parties. Jumping from house to house. And when the parties ran out for the evening, we would find the closest friend’s house to spend the night at. I miss those nights. Walking from house to house, no vehicles, no drama, no trouble, so many drugs, and talks that still lay in my memories, arising when I miss her the most.
she came into the room and fire followed her, the heat was tremendous we shielded our eyes spilled our drinks rubbed our eyes against the current of the heatwave bouncing off the walls and ceiling and floor and knocking over the chairs
you could tell she fucked like a demon with the face of an angel and the body of something out of an art history class
I was looking for you in the burning echoes of these cigarettes. I was searching for your body, in the holes in this skin. I found you in an empty corner of a crowded room, searching for someone, as I was searching for you.
If I could just lose a bit of weight, gain some more it would great. Nose is a little long, it is too short it is wrong. I want my teeth to be whiter, I want my teeth to be less bright. I would just love to be a touch taller and I can not wait until I am smaller. I want to be where it is warmer, I want a constant winter to perform in. I want more affection, to be left alone for introspection. The world is full of imperfection, nothing near me needs a correction. I am the only one that cares, I am the only one not in despair. It seems I have a lot of needs that are impossible to meet. For all that I can complain not a single thing will change unless I take a step myself to start earning my own wealth for the grass is so much greener and the air is so much cleaner on the other side of where I am sitting now.
This was originally written with fountain pen—curséd sink leaking cursive ink. Something about floods frustrates storms under the skull. No one gave the writer an advisory warning.
The letters have been straightened to hide the passiō of poïesis. No one will guess this. Instead of building an ark, he writes how his humanity drowns for your viewing pleasure. At least silence your phones.
‘Alone,’ a poem by Edgar Allan Poe, read by RM.
I posted this one for you Shayla. I hope you see it. I know it is one of your favorites.