Start the clocks. Oaken, wooden, walnut. Mahogany-lined grandfather clock ticks away miserable hours and minutes. I am sorry I said so. Dreams lined with thick-walled anxiety about subway cars and too many people. Onward! Miserable Existence! Trapped within the own poisonous, toxic confines of our own mind, my own mind. Ladyfinger laid, espresso soaked, cream topped, tiramisu consciousness. All I wanted was a waiting room that didn't deceive me. We are all failing the test, the group project. Soul feels ripped out and ripped in half with no way to repair it. I just wanted a moonbeam; Something to hook a hope onto. Like we were skyfishing for stars. Modern redux. Do-over. Modern Baseball. Skeletons and eggshells, always feel like they should come in succession, one after the other, respectively. Self-pushes seems to feel more like shoves and before I know it, I want to quit and want to go to sleep; Go back to bed and start over. Mild Salsa, sweet boredom of Life. I've tried to make sense of it all and now I quit. I am lost and unmotivated. Nothing means anything. Trapped forever, with no desire to swim dirt to the surface. I'll just lay here and decompose under torched skies and dry earth. Sucking up all the moisture I can until I become a flower. Until the door closes. Until the keys stop typing. Clacking of keyboards in some 1950s call center. 

Author: Roe

30. she/her. Songwriter & Trek Punk Soul™.

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