ambivilance bleeds down this severed limb like some sort of root-rotted paraphrase
systematically whispers that contentment is too far away for any type of planning
taking every day for the one before-
i have grown accustomed to feeling like i am in the wrong place, wrong time
if you could take my successful statements and file them away into a folder marked
hopeful, maybe one day i'll be in the mood to read through and laugh a bit
but not right now.
right now i am carving something in the wall that looks like graffiti but it feels like fine oil paintings
right now this complacency has caught fire to such a fire of frenzy, i have forgotten what it was like to breathe slowly...
if i could change everything surrounding me with one snap of the fingers i would light fire to my own walls and burn them down to blue skies only
ambivilance bleeds down this severed limb like some sort of unfinished novel
maybe more like a short story
but i am tired of not knowing which way is up trying not to fall down
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