I like hearty soups, poetry, and trees. I’m 17 also, don’t know if that’s important but I really don’t know what to write here. A lot of my writing is unfinished and messy because I lack motivation and give up half way through.
I like hearty soups, poetry, and trees. I’m 17 also, don’t know if that’s important but I really don’t know what to write here. A lot of my writing is unfinished and messy because I lack motivation and give up half way through.
The Safeway two blocks from my house throws out all of the produce once it turns. A rotten putrid pile created by underpaid college students forms for a week strait, before the city comes to collect their festering waste on Sunday. It’s become a habit of mine to sit out back behind the deteriorating building and watch as the fermented juices of old fruit get splattered across beige chipped paint. Their smell lingers over to my tent across the small gully that separates the city from the forrest and it creeps into my cold nostrils as I try to sleep. At first when I found my nights to be interrupted by stenches of a lunatics mildewed homebrew I was mildly annoyed. As I became curious though I ventured across the gully through the soup of still brown water filled with used needles and condoms and suddenly I was struck with a strange awe. The way the food lay, the way the food festered, drew me in and before I knew it I was trekking across the gully every morning at 8:30 am to see how the pile had grown.
Shifted by change in the direction of the sun. How rough my skin has become from tempest winds.
In the absence of your constant pour my roots take hold. The sting and bind cut through velveteen as I push against the worlds stifled sneeze.
I craved apocalypse before I knew of her strained body.
You are gone.
The focus of light infests my drought ridden eyes.
