you ever pluck a dandelion and crush the yellow petals, and the powdery stamen, stalk in your hand until its a wet mushy ball of pulp and it stains your fingers yellow and it smells a little bitter? you ever find a frantic lone ant on the concrete and you've crushed his little body with your thumb, and his antennaes slowly stop twitching?
you ever take a sheet of aluminum foil and crumple it up and smooth it back out again, but its not the same. or shave your head and see the hair lay in the sink. or leave ice cubes in a cold drink too long and the first few sips are a little watery.
or watch the raindrop make its way down the window, and each time it finds a stagnant droplet, it latches and accelerates slightly, is it the same raindrop? is it the raindrop or the momentum, that is even there?
or summer sun baking a metal handrail and its nice to touch. or dried dead worms on the sidewalk after the rain dries. or the smell of asphault. a laser tag arena thats a little big with fuzzy floors. or the buzz of a florescent light. or a salty tear finding its way to your taste buds. a dead bird in the gutter, smushed and her feathers picked up by the wind.
the delectable crushability of a rubber orange traffic cone. wood panel walls. cigarette butts on a hard floor.
melancholy, evanescence, ephemera. entropy, decay, wilt. brittle, brittle, its too delicate. its far too precious. life is far too precious to experience. it is better as an idea, a memory, a wisp. give form to the softness and it dies. skirt around the edges for your own sake
my stomach is full of butterflies. there's a pain, that's wet and soft and red and raw. it has no form and no friction and it flows into crevices tidally
graveyards of soil and rock, we live inside the tombstone. time moves backwards somewhere else, where decay is blossoming and guilt is innocence. i don't know if i will understand it in the way i should.
walk away, and go home. i want to go home. i just want to go home
you ever take a sheet of aluminum foil and crumple it up and smooth it back out again, but its not the same. or shave your head and see the hair lay in the sink. or leave ice cubes in a cold drink too long and the first few sips are a little watery.
or watch the raindrop make its way down the window, and each time it finds a stagnant droplet, it latches and accelerates slightly, is it the same raindrop? is it the raindrop or the momentum, that is even there?
or summer sun baking a metal handrail and its nice to touch. or dried dead worms on the sidewalk after the rain dries. or the smell of asphault. a laser tag arena thats a little big with fuzzy floors. or the buzz of a florescent light. or a salty tear finding its way to your taste buds. a dead bird in the gutter, smushed and her feathers picked up by the wind.
the delectable crushability of a rubber orange traffic cone. wood panel walls. cigarette butts on a hard floor.
melancholy, evanescence, ephemera. entropy, decay, wilt. brittle, brittle, its too delicate. its far too precious. life is far too precious to experience. it is better as an idea, a memory, a wisp. give form to the softness and it dies. skirt around the edges for your own sake
my stomach is full of butterflies. there's a pain, that's wet and soft and red and raw. it has no form and no friction and it flows into crevices tidally
graveyards of soil and rock, we live inside the tombstone. time moves backwards somewhere else, where decay is blossoming and guilt is innocence. i don't know if i will understand it in the way i should.
walk away, and go home. i want to go home. i just want to go home
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