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three bladed whisper
i reread my first journal entries on here. i used to write a
lot more poetry. seems like i've taken a turn for strange
tangle ramblings to the darkness beyond this screen that
eches back through the mirrors to tell me no one is
listening. its the sadlysentimentality of it that finds me
sobbing half crazed on the bathroom floor at three am easten
time. at least it does that. mine just sits there and laughs
at me. and the guitars. and the dust. i wrote so many little
piece of shit poems that made me smile. that i envisioned
reading out loud to someone beside the moths. have i
mentioned i love moths? i do. i used to feel a lot more.
feeling. like the waves mine wavers unsure just beyond the
shore, always holding out until the last moment only to miss
the sand and crash upon the rocks in sudden shudders of foam
and voldka. its quaint really. the soggy feeling this gives
me. there's that word again. hmm.
i miss the sand. sand and fog and lovely dreams. i have
lovely dreams it would seem but for waking up on the
floor... that has yet to be explained by any course of
consequence or the fact that i sleep next to (sometimes on)
a pile of books. sweet lads really, what matter to i read?
no matter. words words words. oh, that's pitiful.
shakespeare would bow his head in shame. blush and fie ont.
fie i say! would for i to wrap the shame in my palm, and
swallow it whole and maybe then i'd see the moon.
i'd take down my rose coloured glasses,
down from the shelf,
just for you.
they are a little labored,
cracked and stained of silly glue,
but i'd take them down and
dust them off and
give my very best smile.
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