THIS IS ALL I WANT
WHEN SKIES LAY LIKE A TORN CANVAS, DARK AND STORMY IN THE SUMMER RAIN, I’LL RUN HOME. I’LL RUN WITH NO SHOES ON AND I’LL TRY AND CLAMBER ACROSS THE EARTH AND I’LL POUND THE PAVEMENT WITH MY HANDS UNTIL I’VE GOT SOME STICKY BLOOD TO LOOK AT AND SHOW THE WORLD.
THIS IS WHAT’S IN ME, THIS IS WHAT’S PULSING, AND THIS IS WHAT I’M TRYING TO GIVE TO YOU. I WAS NEVER STEADY ENOUGH TO IMPRINT MYSELF CLEARLY WITH THESE clumsy HANDS. THE HANDS THAT TAP OVER LETTERS THAT SPEAK OUT THE TRUTH, THE HANDS THAT CLASP TOGETHER WITH YOUR BROKEN FINGERS.
AND NOW I CAN’T SEEM TO WRITE ANYMORE.
I’VE GOT A STOMACH ACHE FULL OF NERVES AND IT’S A CONSTANT SICKNESS.
