Here I am.
Presentable for the timeless vacuum.
The heat upon the heart
from notions of self-prostitution.

In tomorrow’s world, I will have no doubts.
Isn’t this always the assumption?
A long grace period before we meet death.
Disjointed melancholy of miscommunication.

Never had I a place to call my own.
And even now that I purchased the earth.
It evades me by so many methods.
I want to cry a curving creek and become its fish.

Loneliness isn’t the problem.
It is the discomfort of all things in simultaneity.
Gross results, net negations.
You need me a lot less than I want to be needed.

There it is.
Cold and refrigerated only in places with a price.
The perspectives of living while the torture remains.
Undaunted mutilated creatures, where is hope?


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Writer, aspiring farmer and homesteader in North Georgia, making ends meet and trying to become more enlightened.

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