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 likeāme.
i worried about floods, then the bloodsheds - my own, yours. an oppulence of nothing, relluctantlyādo it
there were eyes, plenty. then stilnessāthen 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, thereās a peace, blackened bodies. silence, sibilance, still noā¦words.
None that make sense, really.
chatter. radio. aol startup tones.
pop-ups from ads, a tracking notice, āclick here to accept cookiesā - sure.
no one believes you in antics. with or without.
im, still, me!
i can never place blame on those who love different than iāwisdom is only something in a moment of hindsight, in which you, and only you can seeāanyone who tries. is whom, i, have had held hands within, without it, themāi 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 iām 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