Waiting

I have almost (almost) perfected the art of waiting. It's become my hair shirt. My razor blade for hidden places, my drink that no longer gets me drunk.

It scratches at me...but I don't move. I sit. I wait. I hold.

S.A.D.

skeleton trees
lose grip on leaves
and the sun shines
pale light
darker and darker
the night creeps in
at six o'clock
bringing the manic heart

*Although south Texas is slow at receiving autumn, I can feel it creeping around the corner. I hate to anticipate the moodiness it brings, but dimming light and cooler wind make me a sad girl.

Dead Tired

My gut feels like it sits square in my throat. My eyes burn and water, and I'm not crying, I'm not. I'm just tired. Bones aching, fingers linger, feet drag. Slice on the smile. Chores get done. Nothing changes. The world won't stop for me.

Patience is harder here in my dead brain. Snapping is the easiest to do. How can I be tired and still scream so loud? It does not seem possible.

Blink

I want to be typing my novels on this. While smoking, and drinking enormous amounts of alcohol. To lift the filter. Maybe some of those bent keys don't work and I have to type around an "m" or a "," oh well. I wonder what it was like, before this cursed blinking cursor.

The blinking cursor is making me blind.