Words.

Words I let words flow through me like the content of water. It trembles fast in my veins. I ache to hold it. Withered and drawn, the world remarks at how fragile it is, how vein. Tendrils of smoke rise up from the ashes of all that has been destroyed, in nothingness, in shame. Tenderly you wake, in the presence of the dawn, and I sleep in a world without war and shame. My mother is an alcoholic. I have shot an arrow of promise to the Lord, who wakes for me to slumber, and I dream and wake again and again. Hold onto this forgotteness that is a void, a rockstar of sorts, and the world willows in ashes that come through me, around me. I am here. I am not. Take all that is worth and leave me alone, far away into the dawn, and the willingness that comes forth into the great sky, and I feel things and I don’t. My mom likes dogs but I hate them. So soon it breaks.