||[Nov. 28th, 2006|09:36 pm]
Myke on a Byke
I hold my head aloft with the palm of my hand, and touch my eyes, my feet and ears. I see things on roads that disappear in lines I carve. My vision vibrates more than shakes as if I were on drugs. As it is I wish I were. |
I think I've created this struggle for my own amusement. I will forget the things that keep me going on purpose, and I feel as if I chew through inspiration to quick (I will try to avoid metaphors here). Not to mention the second person, although addressing you does satisfy some strange social desire that orients me in half suns and an empty vastness.
My bed is cold. Lets talk about the fact that sometimes I feel hands curve around my waist and I pretend for a moment, for as long as a breeze blows through an open window, that something is real here besides me. I want to change the subject with every sentence.
I remember writing in here and having a purpose and a point. These days, however, not so much. I doubt I'll write in here too often anymore.