mothing natters

I have to let myself go
over and beyond the call
of time tickling my outsides
laughing so hard, at how soft real life is.

however It is with not without sadness,
that I look out from this shell
Upon this beautiful mess of my soul
leaked across every fathom of space,
that I come to the conclusion
I probably never existed in the first place.

And yet even this sweet sorrow
for this small (no)thing I called myself
can console me
Personally and or transcendently
because really,
 Nothing matters
maybe it's the only thing that does.

all the things I must forget

I remember nothing,
The warp and the weave of it, the feel of it underneath my fingers.
I remember it exactly how I wanted it;
and how exactly it is.

Now when I try to find where I put down my keys,
my phone,
my life,
nothing consumes me.

And when you ask me how I am
I have nothing much to say.

xo

writing about

to say, more & less
inconcisely
without constant censure
to write right about
hungry words
 ( easily distracted)
tired of the deep
where everything is unevenly weighted against
this speech
which Could never be free
costing at least the air that I breath
not to mention the mess inside my head
tying strings around two moons
moving in different orbits
ruining everything together
misspelled, bad magic
dreaming I'm asleep
always deeper
staring stirring me up
mastering my personal misunderstandings with gravity
falling upwards
into endless blinding light.