Another Hood creation on a day thats been forgotten. And now more space and a dieing pen. I spilled ice water in my bed. But who else would care and why would I tell? Writing has lost its quench and my throat is still dry, my pen too. I want to cry. Some emotion. But not anger. With my Ludwig Van soundtrack and not a single tear. So much I could cry for, dead pens and my ice cold bed. Hot hands and tired eyes. The could be summer turned winter cold today. Unknown thoughts hididng back there. Back where? My head, duh. No more space for myself and too many months to hope with much thought. A hole in my stomach and I've no idea where it leads. Short sentence. Short thought. Welcome to the planet. Welcome to existence. Welcome home? I want something. An unknown desire that pulls at me: cautious of cliches, and no longer writing for writings sake.
About Me
- Manda
- I'll say what I always say: I walk through grass, not on concrete. I listen to music, not radio hits. I watch films, not television. I make art, not junk. I love beautiful people, not beautiful faces. I am me, not you.
