I realize. I can only write quality when sad or angry. Frustrating, forever thus breaking the flow and only I know when the time will be to open up again and free all the thinking, shrinking, sinking and slipping thoughts up here behind closed eyes-
slowly eating away behind caged ribs .
Everyday new problems made, new orange cones and red lights parade the streets of needle and thread. The sun goes down at night and I dream of solving the problem-
the bargain continues to darken at every strike across the face that is the problem that I have made-
and make them I do everyday.
For myself to hide, runaway. Climbing up a mountain of faith only to carry the feeling and throw the thought off the edge,
like waste.
Engage, listen, explain. I do, I try, I will and I might even add something new if I feel like it. Just to climb to point 5 once again soon point 6, 7, 8 and I don’t think I've ever looked back. In time it fades to black.
Eating away.
