Days of somnambulism always come with a potent mixture of emotions eagerly biting at the bit as they tug on my sleeves. Sleeves that dawn a heart, my heart, and attempts at going sleeveless only left traces of a cold hearted girl with a redneck tan.
Succumbing to a melancholy pensiveness seems to be the better choice for the daily outlook.
Be or become. Rise or fall.
Which sounds better?
Climbing a wall with no end or falling from it? One can only continue to look upward even when the darkness sheds it's cloak.
Today hasn't been all that bad and if I was to circle a comical emotion from my therapist's chart I'd scribble all around Mr. Calvin with the golf ball eyes.
Mr. Suspicious.
This has me singing with an Elvis Presley like tone and craving fried peanut butter and bananas. I'd curl my lip but that would only leave me looking like a googly eyed nutcase trying to squeeze out gas. (yea, great visual isn't it?)
I can't help but feel like the rocks resting peacefully down stream from the rapids. The waters not yet calm as it briskly washing over them.
Such an ambiguous ambition to dream to be such.
A rock.
It doesn't think. It doesn't feel.
It's just existing in it's own little world, solid and whole.
To be broken is beautiful because nothing is perfect yet being broken brings turmoil of a constant battle to make the pieces fit. I surely feel for Mr. Dumpty though I envy his army of King's men. My men present themselves in an orange bottle with a white top.
As the mixture of emotions have swirled around this day they swirl themselves around my writing as well. Point A doesn't lead to point B and good luck connecting the dots.
My mind is confusing, baffling, and constantly contradicting. You say black and I'll say white.
Red light, yellow light, green light, GO.
Time to lay this rock in the river bed and take it for what it is. I was never good at skipping rocks so I'm not going to try. This only brings memories of a frustrated little girl stomping her foot in the dirt.
Skip. Skip. THUD. Shit.
Succumbing to a melancholy pensiveness seems to be the better choice for the daily outlook.
Be or become. Rise or fall.
Which sounds better?
Climbing a wall with no end or falling from it? One can only continue to look upward even when the darkness sheds it's cloak.
Today hasn't been all that bad and if I was to circle a comical emotion from my therapist's chart I'd scribble all around Mr. Calvin with the golf ball eyes.
Mr. Suspicious.
This has me singing with an Elvis Presley like tone and craving fried peanut butter and bananas. I'd curl my lip but that would only leave me looking like a googly eyed nutcase trying to squeeze out gas. (yea, great visual isn't it?)
I can't help but feel like the rocks resting peacefully down stream from the rapids. The waters not yet calm as it briskly washing over them.
Such an ambiguous ambition to dream to be such.
A rock.
It doesn't think. It doesn't feel.
It's just existing in it's own little world, solid and whole.
To be broken is beautiful because nothing is perfect yet being broken brings turmoil of a constant battle to make the pieces fit. I surely feel for Mr. Dumpty though I envy his army of King's men. My men present themselves in an orange bottle with a white top.
As the mixture of emotions have swirled around this day they swirl themselves around my writing as well. Point A doesn't lead to point B and good luck connecting the dots.
My mind is confusing, baffling, and constantly contradicting. You say black and I'll say white.
Red light, yellow light, green light, GO.
Time to lay this rock in the river bed and take it for what it is. I was never good at skipping rocks so I'm not going to try. This only brings memories of a frustrated little girl stomping her foot in the dirt.
Skip. Skip. THUD. Shit.
