When the hot breeze bears down, and the heavy, intoxicating smell of the fresh-cut grass rises,
I want to run, to reach for my fife and flee, flee to the cool forest.
I never give up hoping that there will be a day when I can cry,
cry from sunup to sundown with greasy, slimy tears,
pain vomiting out my eyes like gloppy chunks of life--life, that is so ugly and so heavy.
I have made my bed, and I will lie in it until I forget how to walk.
No comments:
Post a Comment