presidentnieves
Drip. Drip. Drop. Drop. Plop, drip, drop. The faucet just wouldn't shut the fuck up. Drip drop drop drip. I could fix it. But then who the hell would I be? The guy who's actions are dictated by all these outside forces? No. Fuck that faucet. Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip. Drop...
Shakespeare knew nothing of the world outside. He knew he would not be able to provide for his family the way he wanted. Young Willy was left with a choice. Become a financial adviser and make the money he knew was necessary, or leave that world for one he knew he loved. One filled with creatures and beings of impossibility. He needed to choose the second. He needed to choose the Globe. And he changed the world there.
I hate Eagles. Not eagles, exactly. I hate my father, who left me and my mom in 1999, who happen to love eagles and put them everywhere he could. On his dresser, his dashboard, around his neck. He sure loved eagles. Just wish he loved us as much as he loved them.
Clicking away, typing away, living away. Dale never knew one person who did not hate him. Not one. But the internet didn't judge. The facebooks, and tumblrs, and twitters, and instagrams never saw his face. Not his real face. Things could be changed, seen different, warped. Dale liked it that way.
Whole Wheat. Her choice every time. I sat behind the counter, longing to ask her something, anything. I never did. I thought about the talks we could have had. The night's spent longing for one another. The time spent dreaming of what comes next. But I never talked to her. Only in my dreams.
I couldn't get clean. It was as if the smudge had stuck onto the underneath. I couldn't get clean. I scrubbed and pushed and gnawed at it. I couldn't get clean. All I could was watch, as the smudge took me over.
His spit spat off his tongue in such a way that the room knew what came next. Every word uttered from his abdomen from that point was black with deceit. He took each opening of his mouth with malice. He did not stop speaking until the whole room knew his goal. His speech was a plague that no one knew how to stop.
There is not a single place he could think on that would quench him. He would bobble from place to place, town to town, city to city, without a single flicker of the light. He though he would never find it. Maybe he's right....
The sunshine never ceased. The flames never diminished. He had one chance to look out onto the world he was leaving behind. Before he turned around to leave his life, to leave his ways, he took one longing look back into the distance and spit into his misfortunes face.
He saw the world in a different way. Everyone passed by wondering what he was staring at, what he was thinking about, where he was. When asked what preoccupied him, he always replied the same way, "There. I'm over there."
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writing since 2011 · 19 entries · 19 days shown up
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dripfinallydropeagleslovedautumnroomwaitstoplongingfacecleanhateworkwrongpastels