begin_again
Death of a Rose I can't, it's home to me, this hell.
Looking for something uplifting, you won't find it here, as I've realized that while I am a good person in life, I'm a horrible person in my own mind.

I begin, I end. What was inbetween?
Short experiences, weird remeberances, classic examples of doubt and shame.

I have so much in here with me, it rates a gameshow to guess it all, although no prizes are awarded. This has no fanfare, no welcome, no belonging. It is simply me that tries to remember a time when nothing was wrong.

Even this writing leaves me puzzled, as if this is a fragment of a another dream I had. Of those that have greeted me and shaken my hand, they are but distant voices in another world.

A crayon has more hope of lifting the pictures into brilliance.

I self indulge, I listen and regard, I am quiet with everyone.

So much I have looked at, so many situations that have left me wondering why this is a standard way.

Another impermanent blue feeling, to drown in another crisis of the fingers touch.
051224
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