I cleaned my room not to feel like a fuck up, so much.
I put real pants on – thrifted. Old Digz I renovated for more money
And shut down a shit show because my backyard o’ community
Decided to get to work and start talking to each other.
Communication is a feeble reach, even in Nastiness – otherwise
Your actions show me accord.
And bullshit spit-shined for food stylizing – is not what Zeroes do.
Cook – walk harder – learn how to take care of yourself.
Then the Leftovers realize they weren’t the reminders.
I was the whole fucking Pi.
– – –
Hands shaky.
Practically wheezing.
Social Anxiety and I talk of the mitey and I’m so fucking scared all the time because I’m a little bitch at normalities.
But had no problem at seeing a blood and gut stained AR shell at the Amoreie Pickup-Dropoff Line – and I still own no weapons in my household. [they took my granite-whittling pocket and penny-chain knife..]
Not as a threat to myself – I’m trained.
And Willi-Blowers with no smize except for drug-store makeup clown frights
Think they can play chicken and bullshit aiming for my demise.
I eat blackberries and 4 centuries ago they were named nightshade.
Don’t try the raven-fang. Cerberus would never.
Instead the hello-hounders meet the Hounds-of-Hell and we wonder why we’re all so shy
When someone brings the fucking wives, no spouses, and children to the barbecue and wanna play cornhole games.
We all know what each other did here – you’re in the dark.
Perfect candles for a cake – I rather lead the men on a campaign with hatchets and shovels just to carve a totem pole for the kids to climb and vine the vines of tree to tree.
Fortress, Haven, Canopy. Ah, the good life.
Sleepover in the back of an open-latched truckbed under the stars and citronella candle on the dash with the cross-bow billowing the fragrance across the evast.
I harvest the woodfuel and you pluck me wildflowers and dandelion greens to put in the
Gruel food bowl o’ energy for the night. (cast-iron pot dutch oven always found insight of Lodging)
This is the Life!
Romance or nuisance – you’re never gonna make it past that cubic zirconium ring you complained aches your finger, sooo. [while my commitment ring in Siberian Tradition Double-Batch has a crater for my own hand o’ lance diagrphrihum.]
The man of a Mine and Foodie Farm Fish raiser mongering Blame-the-Brain- game.
That’s how they test on the West-side.
And East-side only got one hiccup per generation.
What happened to all your lamesmen living alone in Tennessee Mountain Air?
Divorced raising the leftovers of another failed marriage – just to realize Life is lived more happily in the natural than materialistic pleas and forgotten holidayze [matching fucking juvenile pajama party from double-sewn fuck-up clearance stores.] scenes.
We got everyone to the kitchen that cared enough to help. And those are the ones that are Happy when they go back to their room or for a phone call outside, these are the ones that are sleepy but never sleep and just rest-their-eyes peacefully at night. Maybe not with themselves they find this peace; but knowing their individuality is never left on a
-Retainerfullof-Chocholate.Quick.Cake.
Yay! -Sam(whostandsupforyouandyourbitterprincessaovergrowntoddleryou’retryingtohlepbutwont’FLIPTHEHOUSEWITHYOU ;))
petrichor - archive 