Bare-footed lunacy and the taste of stale cigarettes.
Me to a t.
That's the kind of dumb shit I do. Chain smoke outside in the brisk spring night, imagining i'm somewhere else rather than anywhere I am.
Even if where I am was where I was imagining I was at some other sober, sad and doubt driven moment.
Greasy hair from a week of avoiding the mad, human need to constantly preen, and I've had more time since to reflect and deflect on my mind and my studies.
Maybe I'm going to be a sad, sober and somber girl even with what I want.
I'm not even a girl anymore, I'm a nineteen year old woman.
But tell my heart that.
I wanted this and now that I've got it I'm just as stagnant as when I was wishing like mad I could have it.
Will I ever be satisfied?
My heart beats harder for not knowing.
YOU ARE READING
Old Pieces.
PoetryI've found myself blocked and mundane for the last 18 months, and in a desperate search for my soul again I've decided to publish some of my best previous works. I don't expect them to be good, but I want them out there so my stale mind can dust the...
