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i would weave poetry but i’ve nothing worthwhile to relate... not that such a trivial situation has ever stopped me. i’m incredibly gifted at saying absolutely nothing, but saying it beautifully.
no inspiration but the conceptual- a mentality dominating, prevents word. i would simply exist within my ideals.

the evening sky is dust grey, smoke clouds littering an ephemeral pool of ashes. What remains of a complacent breeze is puffing its final warmth between the spindly palm leaves, like satyric fingertips sashay against each other.

i dreamed the thing i am now had never been.

oh well. oh well oh well ohw elwl oh well oh well howeh llwe oh well.
i want to die in a place that doesn’t know my name, amongst heady blossoms and insects never meant for human contact. i’m going to die in Africa, live for Africa, absorb her soil into my pores and scrub it deep with rough bark. soil and soul so close on the keyboard.
i never really expected-
it was just nice, to believe in something for awhile. that sweet sensation of hope. hope is a seductive mistress, isn’t she? but my humanity, my beautiful network of god’s greatest love remains.
i’m going to save Africa.

but it was nice to ******** believe.