Writing is a Worry

Human knows, somehow, that this anxiety, like weighs lifting a head, while pushing down, causes nothing good. In other ways a human would be happy to be free, to think and play, to work and live, in the Sun.

Thinking of women, no one matches, in mirror like love, how could they? Going alone is better, you can’t save her anyway, she is not yours to save. You can take to your grave feeling like you killed her, that she died for you, because of you, she was tortured.

On a happy note you have your addictions. Lucky they can’t last, or a freedom is taken. The money must last, for food, for rent, to set yourself up to just survive, addicts spend.

I think sleep is a love, like arms holding, a togetherness, a lust, lovely pillows, warmth, like a womb. Your mother is a woman that birthed you, but you are no baby, unlike him, a child and his mother, a lover, a mother, you aren’t a baby like him.

So sip and smoke, set the timer, do a joke, do a dance. The romance has ended with your hands, play the cute, play the goal, shoot, and score nothing but air.


Author: leeethomas

Visual Artist, musician and writer from Australia. Interested in Love and the Mind.

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