kkharsa
smooth, rough edges, no not anymore, but then there's distinct taste, different from cotton, different the clothes i wear, but i can hear what this thing once was, this animal skin, the air of underneath a cloud.
i dance in my shoes until someone shows up and takes me away from my fears and then i am free again to roam the streets of my memories and how the buildings give light to the trees they consume, over and over again, why then is it so hard to let go of these shoes, of these pains to be strong again, to be one with my demons
the white and the red, tubes of globes, pretty pictures they give me, pretty memories they erase, but i push them down with no foresight of this, only the hope that i will be able to walk on, around and to the corners of my mind, away from the shadows of the sun.
pull and push it around in circles like figure eights until there isn't anything left until the black and blue and silver grease comes back around when there should be time to go around the bend around the world like a trapeze like a box that fits and closes and opens revealing more than it ever had but then the circus ends and twists and turns around in a fit.