Weeping Willow
no one believes you in antics, for if i was steady; i would not be myself. There were anecdotes from down under that i wrote about.
it got lost like—me.
i worried about floods, then the bloodsheds - my own, yours. an oppulence of nothing, relluctantly—do it
there were eyes, plenty. then stilness—then calls become sparce.
what happened to the birds? where did you run off, again? with them? as them? they still find pity. a form to bash, clauses to write, you. out from.
like down under, there’s a peace, blackened bodies. silence, sibilance, still no…words.
None that make sense, really.
chatter. radio. aol startup tones.
pop-ups from ads, a tracking notice, ‘click here to accept cookies’ - sure.
no one believes you in antics. with or without.
im, still, me!
i can never place blame on those who love different than i—wisdom is only something in a moment of hindsight, in which you, and only you can see—anyone who tries. is whom, i, have had held hands within, without it, them—i shrivel.
i worry where we all go, still not when we fall asleep. but when we are so numb that we all ask another circular question.
are you okay?
did it hurt?
stop telling me i’m scared?
im not?
but the world keeps telling me
i should be
and i dont know if i should be
so i wont be
-alice
xx
song as usually, required listening
xoxoxo
