just to let it out

To just feel, purely, wholesomely. It’s a challenge. I have learned to keep on moving through the gears fall off, though the wheels are sagging mush, though the handlebars have sharp rust. I have learned to keep a-movin’. Front wheel of my bike got stolen. Left ventricle of my heart got stolen. It’s for the best, it’s for the best. It’s the best. But now I must be…Each day is a journey. Each journey is, many things. Nice use of commas. I understand commas. I am one with grammar. Write long love ballads. Everything brings me back to writing. Writing has been my oldest, strongest companion. My first and best friend. My only true lover. What about theatre. Theatre theatre my dreary lovely theatre. I am so baffled. What is my true nature? I am a lover of language. Languages. Words. Words. Word painter. Poetry. Poetry. Have you read Pablo Neruda? Fucking hell. How could it be? How could it be as such? As things are now. Cornered into holes. Swept into corners of our own dust we do not notice we are no longer there. So used to the filth, to being unwanted, stepped on, swept up, into corners.

Please delete all photos of me from your phone. Please erase me. Please forget me, fully, completely, as I forget myself. I am not imagining things. I am, observant. I am I am I am. A manic writer. A fumbling woman, pricking myself with the needle as I attempt to weave a tapestry. Worn out metaphor. Losing dice all over again, but I’m still playing, praying, forgive, forget. Technique. Acting. My greatest dream, my most profound, all consuming dream. No man can compare. No woman, no creature, no god, no anything else. Not even myself, but therein lies the mistake. I do in fact compare.

About Undecided Pseudonym

A woman who remembers enjoying writing.
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