I am bleeding
colors of black
light and gray and then the green sweeps in like she does
I don’t care much for earth today, or yesterday
I want the buzz of your flesh telling me in a vibrational solid truth
I am better than I feel right now
I am loved coming in sex
makes me feel it’s true even if after I am back again sitting up straight seeing the me in
tis lonely my yellow shit of fear
for the love of me aches in spades
flooding my heart pumping toward scars that arise when I am in the midst of looking outside
parts that have already proved themselves whole
am I drunk on sorrow?
Always working through my own thinking… last couple days no exception…
Poems seem to paint the pain in ways that satisfy. I think I miss a bit of pain,
as the writing never comes when I am in bliss.