This desk job doesn't suit me. I am not as productive as I would like to be. I find too many distractions and not enough work to do although there is enough work for three people to be done.
My mind is cluttered and unfocused. I can not find my direction. I can not find my purpose.
So I write...
I am writing for roses because I think I deserve them. Let their red mend my broken heart. Grasping the stems leaving me pricked by their thorns bleeding to prove the truth. Sustenance found in the smoke, the only comfort my stomach can bear while my flesh lay stretched singed with the dark marks of the burden of unrelenting press that reaches no further than our social depths. As long as I may keep the enemy afar, then the day does not matter as it shall pass.
this pain sifting through my being providing a residual anchor of confidence. And I will have my red. Cheeks flushed, exuding the rush of my efforts and I don't care for the crutch. Instead of roses, carnations for the death, to hide the scent, and take away the stains that will finish and wipe down the pipes. Quiet now. Quietly more. Never after. What for?
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