Burning Slowly
There is a house that I never leave except to gather things for the days to come I sit inside dreaming from this seat that I am next to you I chase memories that crest undulating hills over and over I am repetition embodied to no end but this There is a house from which i recede into a great black nothingness this room is abyssal there is no light and in these dreams turned nightmares I lose track of you and it’s then you have escaped me for good into hinterlands I'll never know
I always keep a fan on so I can't hear myself think I hate to hear myself think so I always keep a fan on in the winter when I'm freezing I keep a fan on in the summer when there's reason I keep a fan on I tend to keep a fan on
Nothing has come from these words that I’ve written, on paper and on screen. Satisfaction is rare, though not persistence. I convince myself greatness comes with staying lonely. When I was young and smarter for it then, this found me like a searcher for my hopeful heart. It was either this or romance for my soul. I stay inside and toil further with my work of abandonment.
skeletons in the closet that still have skin demons in my family tree from pillboxes to pill bottles scattered to no relief all we know is grief in the end I may never sleep again bad blood bleeds to the top no fruits here like we didn't see to the crops This isn't seasonal I am reasonably lost conceivably left to see to a surf by a sea that I'll never cross