your baby is fat and ugly.
I spent tonight at a work function. A work function as a freelancer. It's quite a state to be in. In one sense, I feel like I should belong to this group and in another, I recognize myself as free and independent. Moments arise in which I realize that I am living this life. This is my life. And somehow when it seems the reality doesn't align with my perception of being, I feel at odds. Is it possible to feel as if I am dreaming in a waking life? I long for authenticity. For proof of today. I want poetry in living. Not growing old as the mind dulls. God, who am I anymore?
Buried under the covers, weaving drunk on the sidewalk under city street lamps, throw your head back and close your eyes as you...as you...as you...
Blinking eyes in slower paces. Flipping the pages of contemporary bullshit. Wear your sunglasses, but when you cover your eyes make sure your heart still beats visibly and out loud. Quit hiding. Just quit hiding.
I want to know what you have to say. What it means to you to live here, to live now. Because we are different people saying different things walking different streets in different places. Say it out loud and it becomes so true, so tangible, so you. Time passes from August to September to the very soon October and here we are.
Crashing poetry readings up the filth-covered stairs in Bushwick, shoving past a plethora of people in the ear-splitting bar, and future bffs clutching at each others' waists in the washed out moonlit streets. Here we are.
We wear tangled chains and rocks that catch the light and reflect like disco balls. We take it down to the floor to that dirty music in an internal world untainted. We fall back in the garden as the night sky grows old. Here we are.
Badly mixed drinks, honesty on the table, lyrical genius in the way you walk. It doesn't matter how thrown you are, how sober in your step, or how dilated your eyes may be as long as you move forward.
Best friends in Berlin leave you looking for more. And the closest to family in Austin pushing you to pursue. What is here, but love, life and liberty? Ol' NYC, you fucking dog. A bitch, but you made me.
"Drunk girls can be just as insane."
Buried under the covers, weaving drunk on the sidewalk under city street lamps, throw your head back and close your eyes as you...as you...as you...
Blinking eyes in slower paces. Flipping the pages of contemporary bullshit. Wear your sunglasses, but when you cover your eyes make sure your heart still beats visibly and out loud. Quit hiding. Just quit hiding.
I want to know what you have to say. What it means to you to live here, to live now. Because we are different people saying different things walking different streets in different places. Say it out loud and it becomes so true, so tangible, so you. Time passes from August to September to the very soon October and here we are.
Crashing poetry readings up the filth-covered stairs in Bushwick, shoving past a plethora of people in the ear-splitting bar, and future bffs clutching at each others' waists in the washed out moonlit streets. Here we are.
We wear tangled chains and rocks that catch the light and reflect like disco balls. We take it down to the floor to that dirty music in an internal world untainted. We fall back in the garden as the night sky grows old. Here we are.
Badly mixed drinks, honesty on the table, lyrical genius in the way you walk. It doesn't matter how thrown you are, how sober in your step, or how dilated your eyes may be as long as you move forward.
Best friends in Berlin leave you looking for more. And the closest to family in Austin pushing you to pursue. What is here, but love, life and liberty? Ol' NYC, you fucking dog. A bitch, but you made me.
"Drunk girls can be just as insane."
posted by typographic darling at 9:06 PM
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