I'm a decaying piece of organic matter, but you can call me Claire. I'm a bookworm, isolated in the depths of non-reality, I live in splotches of color and orangey sunsets-- sometimes even in the absence of color at all, like a boring newspaper spread on Sunday mornings. I breath and long, intricate sentences come out, weaved neatly of beautiful adjectives and solemn metaphors. I whisper activism in my deepest sleep. I am alive in the most ways possible, I have an eye for beauty and an ear for music. I sit alone sometimes and ask the world why I'm here, and I still haven't got much of an answer. I will never give up on asking. I will never stop thinking, and I like that about myself.
Me pretending you can mush words together and they will make sense.
Aromatic coffee beans
enzymes hugging insides
the pulse of the day is in conjuction with the hearts beating
trying to speed time into something it isn’t
the din of the room is belly filling with gut instincts,
stomaching the jokes and smells
unearthed from the roots of our society we land here
smelling of shit and frustration
drink our coffee
and the world can’t be our friend but winnings can.
We need no robes to preach our stories
I don’t need books to learn
life lives here as an oasis of thought and understanding,
and yes, maybe Winning’s is SO LAST YEAR,
but this year sucks, so who cares?
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