no for real though

better than an ostrich

this is how I feel about exams right now

hi world

come date me now pls

I will also accept:

invitations to rap battle

frozen mango chunks

any yoga challenges you care to make available

your offer to call all my exes and see if they maybe think about me sometimes, too

your first-born puppy 

time on time on time to sit in the sun and think about trees

jewelery that is either very delicate or aggressively dazzling

compliments

 

ecosystemic

I'm super interior; all I can do is keep track of my own forest

hardly saffron

All I can do is express myself in drawings in my mind, nothing I can realize on the page.  I can't help but be exactly who I am, which is goddamned shame a mathematical majority of the time.

I'm imprinted in ink, a close and frenetic scribble.  Press your pen to the page and clench your fist, try to resist. 

A close and frenetic scribble, pen marks straying to the edge of the page.  I'm trying to pull

(try to resist hurting anyone, and by anyone you mostly mean you)
I'm trying to pull myself together.

I am I am

I've been quiet lately, I know.  I don't know if my time is too full to leave spaces for poetry or my brain is too full or what.  Sometimes it's just that other people write so sickening well and I know that's a fever I'll never sweat.

I'm trying to melt individualism out of everyone around me; hack out chips of humanity from that beautiful or unbeautiful mass.  I'm getting to a point with my new friends, peeling back smiles and style and trying to chisel away to some sort of core.  All I know I know outside out.

I'm trying to take a couple of steps back from myself for a day or two.  I know this blog is a constant paean to every emotion I've ever felt and I don't mind it that way, but maybe both it and I need a break.  I've been taking one, anyways.

I'm endlessly internal.

sizing

I play with ideas of myself and the world, I stack them up and knock them over again and again.  I'm frustrated with utility, I write puzzles and dreams, I see myself reflected in a thousand panes of glass scattered around the map like pins.  I'm built to shine quietly and ferociously and I'm built with the gleam of a million or two others.

I can't pretend at uniqueness, I'm no artist, I know.  I blank out blank canvases and paint twelve pictures in sync.  The work I produce hangs in galleries around the full-text version of my mind, downloadable and accessible from very few ports.

I'm an exclusive carbon-copy, both beaming and dull.  I'm my own ivory tower and I'm surrounded by giants.  I could seal myself into my mind forever, echo beats off my bones and know a glittering chronological luxury.  Dress up my intellect in furs and spin it around, present a dizzy bow to the opera house.

But I'm an automaton.  Marching forwards forever and climbing up laws like a staircase, looking onwards at due dates and grasping at straws.  I can't pretend at uniqueness, I'm no artist, I know, but I'm doing a wonderful job at pretending to like this.

courtesy of jessi