"When we can no longer dream, we die" -Emma Goldman

Wednesday, May 4, 2011

The bristles of the paint brush stay on the page
Marring the streaks of grey
The sun is streaming in through dirty windows
Casting empty shadows on the floor
Cracked and changing
Forever rearranging
Smiles that lie about where they've been
Words that cut like razor blades in the shower
A silence that makes you want to scream and run under the covers
Waiting for your breathing to become silent
There is something that fills you up from within
Toes, ankles, calves, knees, patellas, thighs, butt, lower back, travelling up your spine
Warming your shoulders and sprinting down your arms to your fingers
It continues upwards slowly creeping up your neck until it reaches your brain and
There's no more sight, no more sound, no more taste, touch, smell
Just black

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