Take a deep breath.
Feel the beat between your ribs.
Open your eyes.
Glare into the white, and scream from
inside through fingernail words,
protest the chaos,
a wail like demons' spawn revealed in holy light,
stare between the boards,
shield your precious mind,
cry contempt.
cry regret.
cry hopes and dreams and wonderful things.
Dip an oar into the stream,
hit bottom, push back,
wrap frail fingers around the throats of Doubt,
who abused and beaten,
turns away and pulls back the page,
ripping out chapters, and blurring the type.
It's not too late to start.
"I don't believe any of it..."
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Comments
And by the way, happy belated birthday.
--
It's the disease of the age,
It's the disease that we crave
also, happy belated.
--
We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.
and thanks!!!
And thanks!
I'm glad you do
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