Listening to the rain. I’m home. The sands of time can go fuck themselves. Each of them. Home wasn’t always a thing I knew. Home was a faint whisper about Honesty and relief. Home was a deepening hole begging you to never tell. Never tell. As hushed mushroom grew in the shower. A blistering mouth spewed throbbing beginnings. – Listening to the rain it’s hard not to love. Now that I am home. And I am home.
I remember his tears
they were like my own
I unbuttoned his shirt
and turned the mirror
What a beautifully fucked up life this game is. -M. Taggart
I wish you would stop taking your mind off. A man took his bare skin. Again. A non-manipulated child said loudly, ‘nothing.’ The child said nothing. A period of chance happened upon a young stone. The young stone wanted more than anything to be with water. Can we smooth your surface for you? water wanted to know.
Odd Fucking Walks.
There’s a bench at the end of the path. The bench faces a line of pine trees. Just on the other side of the trees lies the answers. Someday we’ll sit on the bench and discuss what’s to know. A frog hops near. We ask the frog if we ought to wait before we walk within the trees and he replies, ‘Wait. Wait. If you wait enough you’ll remember to wait and forget to not.’ We asked the frog what that means because we weren’t sure we heard him right and the frog told us, ‘Something will because you asked.’