Freshly painted toenails dipping into the sand. Fingertips typing motionlessly as the keys click in an almost rhythmic pattern. I wait for your patience and my phone call. The memory of a wasted past revisits my future and I sigh. The thought of one to share the next week with. The thought of red and yellow tulips greeting the unknown doorstep. I wish I had some hope left in me but the tension in my shoulders resides where hope once had a home. These shoulders could touch my ears with confidence and class. One day I will be home, they sigh. One day I will be home.
I'm so bored with this hopelessness.
Does anyone use this journal B.S., or am I the only smuck who bothers?
Donkeys would have better luck.
- May 07, 2003
- the_combover_g
- No Comments
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