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seasons turn; dirt turns to mud under storms. everything's coated in a fine layer of pollen. cleaning seems futile. strangely, my immune system has not rioted against it this year.

i feel as if i'm fighting a losing tide against the wall of objects i've deliberately stacked, carefully, to be dealt with later. weekends come and go, and i punch down the stack as if that will do anything. as soon as i mend one pair of pants, the other pair of pants rips open.

i'm itching for change, i'm itching for change. but it never seems like the right time. that's the point; it's never the right time.

i don't know what i'm so afraid of.

Permalink
24 April 2019 20:46


prayers


for every car i see, i say i prayer
peering through snow melting to slush
on my goggles

i've bolted out of churches all my life
my skin tingling with anxieties
rolling my eyes skyward

so i don't know what it means
to """say a prayer"""

but this is what i mean when i say it:

"please don't run me over please don't run me over please don't run me over
please don't run me over please don't run me over please don't run me over"

so maybe it's not a "prayer"
just a plea

Permalink
24 January 2019 09:37



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