In a circle full cotton melodies and baked apple pies, I crave and hold a broken periphery of words like an extension of truth , a point of concave solitude. I rub my skin to discover, words unheard, unsaid. I rub my iris, and pinch myself black and blue like a fiction produced by swallowing, Catharsis. I sit, beneath a bower of insecurities to feel a surge of emotions and pour myself in blue ink.
I Think.
Think.
And Think.
Tap my pen and scratch my head to flow these letters and phrases out on sheets, but words just don’t seem to find their way out on paper anymore and my mind slips eachtime I ink something like a mother’s touch, to a place unknown.
So I try closing my pale eyes, like a water caltrop in ocean currents to put some relief on the manical themes, running in my…
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