If it weren’t for the roaches in the wall

9 02 2012

there’d be no one who could stand me.

If you were to fill a burlap sack with the weight of these dys, and the bitter restlessness that fills me to the brim, you’d have a bottomless sack and some broken toes;

I’m learning as I go that the anticipation I feel, when not in motion, turns into those anvils, those rusted anchors I’m now tripping over. I’m eighteen years old, and I live in a place where the people you’ll meet, are out to get you. where these small town values do nothing more than to shut you out. where no one can find how to spit out the words “Please, thank you,” and “i’m sorry” with meaning. I’m sick of being one of the few sacrificing; I wake to sleep, I sleep;

My eyes are shut to avoid all this weight, the chained sinkers that wear on me, the harsh words said, and fucks not given. I need to get out of here; because I will not let myself waste this sand I call youth;

By all of this nonsense, i’m just wanting a break, a release, a catch. I want this soil to show me something that compliments this last light.

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