I'm beginning a new process of thinking precious entries are hosts in my heart
Slowing the beating and breaking a sweat
I'm believing myself is deceiving in its self I am bleeding. And sitting in grass, in darkness, in this new process I'm fleeting.
I'm feeling my finger nails run trails in the dirt, and I'm smoking industry leading cigarette bursts into my lungs to speed up the beating of my heart so that maybe I'm shaking this parasite out to squash
under my thumb like the bugs on my phone, because I'm typing too fast to leave them alone. I'm typing to fast to use too many devices, but that is the reason for this process. I hate rubbing my eyes, or thinking of it which makes me need to, I hate brushing against you or trying to think of how exciting it is I'm sick of inviting you in, and these bugs are all over me crawling like my skin when I'm trying to be honest. I hate writing long lists so much I'm pulling up fist fulls of grass and my back is aching but I'm imagining waking up right here if I don't move an inch maybe I can finish this.
YOU ARE READING
Thresheld
PoetryMy life is a series of thresholds that I overcome through poetry. Love, loss, pain, regret, humor, irony, word play, and even sarcasm are as much apart of my life as they are central to my poems here. I am Thresheld. UPDATE: It's been quite a few ye...
