i am sitting on the sidewalk. eyes blurred from the rain that has fallen, droplets clouding up a windshield. the cement is like a blanket, but hard, more like petrified oatmeal. the open air to me, feels like a prison. a place where i am innocent, but everyone looks at me, knowing if i was that which i claimed, i would not be here, chained as i am. the only conversations i have take place underneath my skin, quiet murmurs between organs and tissues, blood and valves, things that i have never seen, and still am not so sure exist.
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frankie18:
i really like the way you write. i read the poem you posted in your last entry. yours i assume. like someone else said it made me feel kinda dirty. i guess deep down theres a part in all of us that can relate.
frankie18:
yeah ill definatly keep reading. can you give me a little hint at least about what the paper is about. it would be good to know. i added you as a friend too. so there. we are officially now friends.
