in gardens of ice I rest until the cold kills me, or the noise
stomach brimming with unwanted nourishment, not conduced by affliction only an obligation to fulfill
mostly with red wine and bananas
either way this is all just one more sunrise over an Atlantic seashore suicide
a bubble if you will, and a longing of immense magnitude ripping away at the fibers of this party dress
throwing around train tickets and fairy tales, blinded in my left eye only to walk head on into another sleepless night
whispers from the king and queens’ room travel well to the ringing ears of the opened minded
I wish they’d just be real, slam the door and scream
creeping over a bridge, she turns toward the muffled music and a bad painting of the sky
saying to me
"isn’t that beautiful, this is our home"
home? that’s up to you , only an opinion and everyone’s entitled to it
I’ve felt better though