things must be done.

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I must write. I must draw. I have

To sing. I must do these things ev

ery day. Is it the echo of an old f

orce, inertia filling space in a wall

punched out like a person? Am i

The tsunami sweeping up broken

promises and dead contacts, hope

s of douching the land like god yet

always littering wreckage. Is it just

a red-footed chase to nowhere, a

Dream bought in cash in a size to

o small, to be stared at hopelessly,

relentlessly. I buy makeup I don't

know how to use, I follow tutorials

to make coils in my hair that are

n't there, so why not a life? Why

not a dream?

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