Ninetynineprobs

Good days will follow bad ones until all the world’s your playground. and so what if you don’t remember how to be young? And so carefree that the sun dapples in your palm instead of burning in your heart. I will teach you. So be still. Because tomorrow will be better.

Were I a poet of old in the day of Keats I could write you the most wondrous ode and everyone who read it would pause hand on heart And say I wish I had been loved like that. But I am not. So I will not. Were I a musician of old in the times of Bach I would make you a tune of such beauty nightingales would burn with envy. But I am not. So I will not. Were I an artist of old with the passion and creativity of Kahlo I would paint you a portrait so fine That I could press my lips to it and half believe it was you. But I am not. So I will not. All I have are these clumsy words faltering sentences and these hands t

here you go, spitting between life's eyes again and claiming yourself blind. -- the affliction of disenchanted escapists who major in suspension of disbelief and get lost when the wool unravels and the costumes and skins slip off. bare. exaggerating now sordid lips tired tongues. sometimes i don't know if i have forgotten how to write or if its only that i have nothing to say-- i am an amnesiac. {and i always want to pick up dead things} losing instinct with reality taming, and eating inspiration demurely, after all, who could be ravenous here? {-tell me my words aren't just jumping off your spindly ears like they're highrise buildings

we are lurking too close to jesus, on the empty edge of a lightless stage, curved nails digging into the skin of our pale palms. he asks as an afterthought do you believe in something holy? and i think yes, i think this is what i believe in.