unbornbloom

Things you dont want to hear and things I dont want to admit to.
Like the waste of paper cluttering up my normally immaculate desk, all order gone awry by a minor infliction on my stability of common exisistence.
Gold fish are on the floor.
Even mirrors dont show things exactly as they are.
I find my bitterment in small places, like between the grids on the bottom of a con. In the absence of a name. In a museums mention. In the emptiness of a shoe box. In the vain preparations for something grand- I waste.
No. On second thought, I dont waste. In these things I wait. Nothing ever deteriorates. All is electric, shifting of energies. Right now, states just havent shifted gears and it all grinds into a screaming speed of- pathetic denial and hopefulness.
Maybe this is repulsive. Maybe its overly aggressive in thought that does not just slip backward into the swallow of a sea in a fever of helplessness. I am not helpless. All sense abandons, therein lies my lack of helplessness, and leaves me with the smile of content that belongs somewhere else. I am not content. I am not helpless. I am strong. And I am kicking even if teeth grit in a grin.