The leaves turn golden at the same time I'm thinking of you.
It's the Sun giving us chances.
In a few more oncoming lifetime, I'd have run out of pain to write about.
Sometime soon.
My pain isn't profound. Big. fucking. deal.
At the end of the day, it's me, I'm the one stuck with these baskets of pain.
I howl and howl and howl in agony alone.
If I want to romanticize my pain, not even God can stop me.
You can stand at the door and watch the shitshow.
Right now, I still lay out my thoughts on the diner's table and feast on it,
regurgitate it and for dessert, I listen to the bells.
It's pleasant, calling out to me in ripples.
Waves of tremendous longing.
Waves of wantings
and relentless fears.
Waves of yearnings.
Ring around the rosie, ringing, there's ringing in my head.
And when the chimes dissolve, I have stopped being a fucking child.
I still want to wear pompous heels with flowers and have all my plushie friends
with me to sleep, dance with all my friends and skip stones.
Drive me around like my dad did when I was five, so I can sleep.
I'd know when we're almost home. I'd always pretend like I'm still asleep
just so I can get carried inside.
Play pretend.
I'll laugh and never be sad for you again.
Never.
All my pain is insanely human, so fundamentally felt and understood.
Therefore, why?
Why do I feel like all the weight is pressing down on only me?
