I want to rip every inch of blue road mapped out on my skin
Every trail taken has lead me here
Has made me this
Has left me aching and desperate
Who will travel along this broken trail with me
I am alone as I have ever and will ever be
Tonight
More than ever
The road begs to be blotted out and remapped in red ink
Who am I to deny a traveler's destiny
Who am I
Drags on and on and -- on
like a picture of a cigarette -- drawn
on tobacco paper -- irony fond,
fresh like a morning rise -- dawn.
Mindless endless lists,
an off-like lisp,
red lines on wrists,
an almost inconceivably charismatic
she "screams in silence,
a sullen riot penetrating through her mind."
I fell hard like a penny dropped off a skyscraper:
exponentially fast though hard to see,
and deadly hard to those down below.
I’m insecure because I’m fat.
I’m insecure that
it’s too weird
and too strange how I act.
I’m insecure that
deep down there is something fundamentally wrong,
a song so very loud
yet somehow
no crowd
could ever hear it.
I’m insecure more than I admit.
Here’s a list.
I’m insecure that no matter how much I accomplish or how
much money I make,
I’m a fake.
I worry about my fate.
I’m insecure that my luck will run out.
I doubt myself,
wonder just how
I’ll keep this going,
when it will end.
I’m insecure that I don’t
A smile I know -- bright, full, and somehow just a little more --
belies a deep, prolonged desperation for
which I've grown
to know well, which scares me.
Brick floor, cold.
Heating lamp, warm.
Outside, surrounded by canvass and plastic to keep out a storm.
Table cloth, so fancy and smooth I wouldn't know the material.
(It's royal blue for what that's worth.)
Real wax candle, dripping and trivial.
Black dress, shoulders, elegant, chest,
I'm a mess, flashes of you and me pressed
(purple-ish red bed sheets),
hair a mess,
mental images of me holding your arm down,
and your soft breasts heaving between periods of rest.
Questions, answers, opini