abbigail-quinn
I can see you absorbing a reflection submerged in vain centrism around your painted on lids that only concern over the spiders crawling down runways and drivel up my back quivers my head that your summit is so cold and desolate.
So might be the intent of misunderstood words words words, are delivered in soft confession to those boys in the lonely memorial park. I saw my friend Bill there, kissed my forehead and gave me a thousand Hail Mary's then lost my marbles in the game.
Could of bet they were a bunch of lyin cheats yes sir! instead followed them to the river to wash the shit off my feet in vain and light up a bomber, but it just kills him, all the people now dead in the ground, so i just kiss his forehead and give him a thousand Hail Mary's.
Some stream of consciousness writing...
Blamed cant tell for a second glance to have thought for a minute did it cant take it back so what now i stand and for where i might travel and die to lay and forget the blueish sky with my hands and eyes that see my life that must start or end with a atom hydrogen bomb explodes and wipes out my thoughts and recollections that have and havent existed yet cant comprehend the jazz sax that wails GIT DOWN DOG! YOU CANT BE UP HERE! pushes me off and smacks my arm with a ruler and history novel knocks sense into my bones break CRACK! tie em up with some red yarn and crochet dead skin cells so i can stay warm or else freeze on the side of the road dead ends cause its too lazy to go up the hill and scrutinize
June 22nd 2013 on Frenzy
Lying on concrete,
recumbent between Nirvana and neurotic hysteria.
Meditating Shangri-La frenzy thoughts in Allegan Province.
-Provocative-
Aggravating to mend and vindicate.
Barking remorse over dead flies under your feet.
For the people who linger on in Albuquerque.
Imminent skies and exodus desert.
You call it The Land of Enchantment,
We call it The Land of Entrapment.
Rheumy eyes amble the interstate 40,
adorned with intoxication and irrelevance of sordid souls and peyote genius.
They don't know they exist.
37 cents short, thinking you have reached a euphoria.
My thoughts tumble,
over last season's descended leaves.
It always seems too cold in autumn,
Chills my blood.
You've strung yourself on the branches of my memories.
Did it intentionally.
Because you need me to think about it.
Without it , you cease.
...Contemptuous prick.
writing since 2013 · 7 entries · 7 days shown up
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the words abbigail reaches for
deadcantthoughtswordscoldlandeyesfrenzyfeetnowforeheadthousandhailmary'svainstrung