no subject

[erika]

Hit [continue] and here I endure, obstinate. Unwieldy.

I desire communication but have nothing with which to initiate or propel this transaction. How cursed the energy needed to maintain a thin laser layer of clarity. The resulting crystallized tears from my frustration are sold in a black market. It doesn't yet pay the bills.

I am often cold, moving and singing at pieces to make them fit, but never finished. We reserve the warms for useful recuperation of recipients, forever disincluding myself. The company of canines is strictly sybarites only, so often they bask. I've been informed that is happiness.

Yet while recovered, the internal revision of my facial structure precludes irresponsibly inadequate slumber. What was customary is no longer, therefore: Every single day I wake up fey, far away, well rested.

My life has been exposed to the rack; it stretches in front of me like dry torture. Dire lacking desire.

Comments

[enemyofperfect]

♥

[erika]

I've stopped staring at the walls for awhile so I revised it. The entry probably makes more sense now.

[enemyofperfect]

I never felt like this post didn't make sense, just that I wasn't enough of a poet to understand the sense it made. I still feel that way -- I'm really not much of a poet -- but the changes bring some of what I thought I'd understood a little clearer.

Both versions are beautiful.