| (no subject) |
[Dec. 19th, 2009|12:40 am] |
|
Why is it that everyone expects the most of you when you are the one that needs help? Is it just me? Is it that I can't ask for help "correctly"? Is it that I've been there for everyone else so many times that they forget that I need a hand too? |
|
|
| old, depressed poem. |
[Dec. 14th, 2009|06:04 pm] |
Everything here is small and wet
I wish that this dampness had substance
like rain, or fog.
But all that appears is heavy impatience
as if there was solidarity in my sighs.
Tuffs of air that comes out in stones.
Heavy "plop plops" of coagulated frustration.
My hand turns to slop
Everything I touch turns to moss.
My mind turns....
And all that is left of this fat I call brain
Is mess.
Is vomitus.
That burns in my eyes
That cramps my fingers
and leaks into my hair.
The slickness of which,
I shudder to think...
Stinks for days, weeks.
And melts into a puddle
And drips into your mouth
Infecting you with my stone sickness. |
|
|
![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small}
crazygotired's Friends Page