Everything freaks me out.

This month has been very desolate in a lot of ways..  This song keeps sticking in my head..

————————-

All of the people,

All of those ordinary lives,

Building on the outskirts

Of my mind..

They ride the Iron Pilgrim

To holidays for the head..

If plans were hand grenades,

We’d all be dead..

Playing all five stages,

The festival of grief,

God and problems,

What can stop them- realize-

The bottles in the drugstore

Were all just piss and ink..

The flags you wore,

Are rags under the sink..

(Source: Spotify)

I’d trade every dream and all the talent I don’t have for a few good answers to give away.

Heart pounds and scrapes at the lining of my throat, choking out my voice..

Crushed in static and carried off in the poison gust of wind that’s found its way into every dark and narrow corner..

Stomach drops to someplace near or beneath my ankles..

Systems flood..

Cheeks go damp..

The butterflies won’t stop churning..

Eyes go wide,

But my hands are fixed, outstretched, and going nowhere.

April is made of butterflies..

Sticks and Branches, Leaves and Twine.

My thoughts wander too far from my head,

lost in thickets,

scraped and tangled in thorns and branches that swear they mean me no harm,

I fear this time they’ll run too far beyond my reach,

and break the gilded leads that bring them back to my feeding hand,

And whomever it takes its orders from.

The lead breaks.

To whom it may concern.

Untitled. — (Something I found in my draft box).

My legs go slack..

But a moment ago, the world was a frenzy of red

blue

and the brilliant streaks of purple and yellow that stick to their feet

No more noise now..

The crowd carries on, but they’re gone now-

long gone and away.

Left/

Right/

Left/

Right/

caress me in a summer breeze.

What peace..

No cloak 

and no dagger.

No bed

and no kin.

No warped metal frame to leave an example,

no testament left for the salty cheeks.

No farmhand with a cultivator and a bill of sale..

No skin.

Just…

An Unadulterated Collection of Thoughts, Both Reasonable and Unreasonable, that Have Been Plaguing My Mind of Late and That I’ve Chosen to Throw Out into the Ether (a.k.a. What’s Bovvering You, Mark?)

I feel bland.

I feel uninteresting.

I feel obsolete.

I feel like a nuisance.

I feel like a kid.

I feel like a hack.

I feel like a crybaby.

I feel like my foot’s been caught.

I feel like I’ve fallen on my face.

I feel like I’m in a bad dream.

I feel like I’m falling apart all over again.

I feel like I’m driving people away.

I feel tired.

I feel unenthused.

I feel frightened.

I feel as though I’ve lost control.

I feel my head driving my neck down into my shoulders.

I feel butterflies.

I feel fluids pulsing through the various arteries and passageways in my throat.

I feel disoriented, in a figurative sense.

I feel afraid to hope.

I feel like crying.


I sincerely hope I’m wrong.