Grief is sticky green, like gum on the bottom of my shoe break Grief is pungent, the stench hanging in the air No escape from its tendrils forever grabbing relentlessly space Grief is a stale sour lemon with mould forming on the edges creeping into my mouth break Grief is

Last Morning Before  sky  bright  eyes burn  face plate shades  we orbiting Earth  control keeps calling, don’t come home 

Finding a near quiet place  is mostly a case of luck,  and when you’ve found it  bring a book  to fill an afternoon.  Drunk finches will doze  away the long afternoon  and squirrels want their share too.  A wind picks up  making you hold each page  being read.  All before

Be free – means not escaping but gathering events until the mind is a place of ruined masterpieces, leading to artwork meadow where paintings lay melting into the wet earth Withstanding, the lack of portals away from confusion. Standing, while the outline of a body houses vision moving I saw

I just want to escape this frightened disposition where I watch my belly grow and my dreams shrink, hair falling out as I think more and more realistically, sinking into adulthood uneasily but repeatedly by letting go of the youthful notion that we are all here for a reason. Muted