cO cO rIcO
Here are the waves,
foaming at the mouth,
Their white pearly teeth bites the sand
Sinking into soft vestiges of what was once.
The drapery of dark flutters
swimmingly, at first the pregnant thought
Laboring to be heard, slaps the air
Before drowning in miscarried meanings.
The pale hand, bloated and bubbly,
gloved in filmy tangled brown, battered
Waving to the waves that devour it–
sinks hesitatingly to be preserved in quiet tomb.
Poems scmoems. the Friday morning is young with beeping trucks and coffee grounds.
The biggest frustration, I feel, is that of no progress. You build so much conviction on something that you’ve invested in for so long, and it can be gone in one [expletive] fell swoop.
And I fall back on cliches: I’m so tired to trying to find out whatever it is I’m trying to accomplish; when can I know…? The trickle of insanity…. eventually grows into a pool.
Not to be depressing or anything…
via theunicorndiaries.com
Graceee
