the 25th,
there's a letter queued in the drafts. it was not my father's birthday but
mum's crying. i was trying to trace back the first thread frayed, when i owe
nothing to not one soul, but i was given nothing else
to make anything worthwhile.
it was the 25th.
stoned as fuck, a pin-hole view of my youth, i, a peeping tom on my own door.
i couldn't let it go, i couldn't take it back.
it is full well mine but in my head it might as well not be?
standing in front of my home, door open, asking to be let in.
knocking.
funny thing it was, to want a feeling when i was still in it.
is anyone home?
was this it?
this was something worthwhile.
indebtedness is a bitch.
i surrendered good things to time where time is not there yet.
my life, all of the shiny parts, i've mourned before it is taken.
in territory nothing god could've made have yet to touch, my misery made a home out of.
