wouldn't you know it, the tricks run deep
it's friday the thirteenth
everything is held together
(we're made of grass, a common
thread, carbon, God, we'll all be dead)
vagueness is only one way to sooth a mind
weary with nothing

I hold it dear, this drainage
hour after hour slipped away
feelings, felt before
by others, I think
but there's a beautiful,
fabulous difference
my stomach is at odds
with my heart
or my brain, and my
hands are dry

home