seven thirty-five: open up textbox
seven forty-three: huh.
seven fifty-one: well that's it then.
*-*-*
more than alone
lavender and lemongrass
softness the light fades glass
radiant warm while air swirls
chills across just a
touch of sweat and
somehow
these nuances
consume me
and somehow
this is enough
and that is untrue
and yet none of these words
are lies unless they
are and are
considered
necessary. and
they are. oh they are.
yes.
and the
next word
which occurred
was please.
i make myself so nervous these days.
Don't be. It's beautiful...
basically it's the recklessness of it that makes me nervous. it's like i'm overconfident. yeah. it's exactly like that.
overconfident, or suffering from lack of faith in ourselves (low self-esteem).. I think the nature of the aritist is to always live a life of both at the same time.
Un-huh, like 111 on the 101, rather than 110...
no, that's not overconfident, i know i can do 111. or 110. but i generally take days, weeks, years to finish a poem. not minutes. and certainly not sixteen of them. and even if it was minutes there would always be a buffer zone, it would have to hold on to it for a day or so to be sure.
and this one, this one i ... well, it's ... i have nothing about it i'd change. which is the weird part.