This, is not one of those days. Today i'm skipping, face foward with a head full of jelly and a heart pumping hope. And i ain't talking bout that homoigenised, perservitive shit jelly, naw, THIS heart operates only on organics. This SEED was planted by the god in me, And THESE WORDS are just the result of what i don't know how to say in person. My pen is a weapon, and the ink, its ammo, yet neither are destructive or understand what they're fighting against. I constently write to never give up the fight for learning to love myself.
But everytime i play THIS game, i'm sent into the same dizzy tumble of what ifs, and remember whens. My glorification circits are sent spiriling backward, the way kids do in pools of shallow water. But my thoughts aren't that fluid. My synapses tend flicker in and out running on reserves of dopamine i keep in the parts of me i dont even let Myself see. The ideas i have are bursting behind my eye sockets, proventing me from the temptation to tamper with tear ducts. They leave no room for dispear, strictly keeping to their vow of hope. My body has turned on me, and for what better reason but to keep me alive. Constently working on creating a greater future.
My youth was spent in a washer machine of my own saliva, the timer, broken, so i never knew when my load was done. Ashamed as it made me, I was forced to display my laundry to the world. Every passerby miticuously refolding, re bleaching and eventually taking the things i had grown to love.
So i forced myself into pretending to believe in the goodness of people. In the wireless, caotic network of human beings. The times in which a stranger provided for you what a mother never could. And how you felt walking away from your new frinend whom you will never meet again in this life.
Now, i tend to spend my days trying to make this moment, Last Forever.