Tuesday 10/02/2007 12:50:00 AM

Talking to the ladders. In spits of paint as we reach for the ceiling with dirty brushes. No more mirrors overhead. No more rivers overlooking the ruthless saviors in our pants.

We're undone.

Woken up from dreams we'll never finish.

Tangled in the sails of this sinking boat.

Aching arms reaching for the naked spots above us.

Arguing with the staircase. In torn sails. The democratic election of apathy. Every vote counted only if it's correct.

With broken crayons. With scissors in her heart. The picture is drawn. In tiny pieces. Useless cuts. Spoil the lines she'd drawn.

Anonymous said...

What i really think is that if somoene drinks it take a hole lot to admits that they like to drink.I realy feel for the ones that drinks that there has tobie some grey clouds over there heads and that is always because of another person involve like a father a mother so hang in there.

ap said...

i'm fine. don't fret for me.

it's just writing.

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