I sit here drinking

I sit here drinking
Just thinking and over thinking
Every sound your words make 
I try dressing and undressing every vowel, syllable, and pause of your sentences. I write small tiny script even though that's not my type. I write shamefully, in embarrassment, these words that paint the images created in my mind. My strands of hair sit lifeless on my thumb as I write. I don't move them- I like the image of wholeness it makes. The idea that I have not fallen apart. Now my type is cursive, it's swayed letters melting into one another. The sudden strength building up as the ink flows through. Who do I love. Is it you, him, her, me. Them, us, my ideas, my thoughts. I love my mother and she loved me. So here we go again to being my fucking drama bee. making shit up from what I pick up on the streets. The bows, the toys, the dirt and rocks I like to display next to your piece. Fuck, where is home? I forget. Is it only on nights when we fuck in bed. Is it wishful thinking to dream us sour and blue, when in truth my eyes cry out for me to view, all the happiness and love that surrounds my self. My mind just can't handle that, shit, am I , shit, are you, fuck. Just drink silently and wait for my mind blow over.

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