free write i

somehow it tumbles from the sea like electric. electric sea creatures. with spines for skies threading the clouds through knots, notches of vertebrae. drawing maps accross your back . over the sheets but there are things that i cannot say. things that i can not remember. because they have slipped out the back door and out the back alley. to meet and have drinks and smoke cigs standing in puddles. rain between the eaves. there was a time when all of this made sense, when i allowed this to all spill out. spilling glasses of gin across the table like a dribbling old man, lost with memories. ive spent way too much too much on what i hoped was, on what i hope will be. i need to make this now. i need to take that walk i promise myself. because time. time. that fucking prick fuck. is slipping thru with his veil. his vail with his eyes, smudges of dreams. these things are going to get a lot worse before they get better. letter. there are letters ive hidden. ticked away for another time. there are letters ive ripped to pieces. there are letters ive burned. and there are letters ive promised. its funny the things we tell ourselves just to make it thru the day , just to make it to another person. roads we drive. lines we cross. ive spent these years, these worn and tired years following a ghost. a ghost lead on a line, down a path i thought was mine. but my eyes were closed. or half open. i cant tell anymore becase i cant hear and i cant see. i remember the sand. the sand at the sea. how the tide would wash up and swollow pieces of me. carrying them out to where i couldnt see. sea . leigh. you have to wonder. at least i do. where the time. goes. there are places in this w;e world i will never touch. never. and there are people in this world i will never see. it ends unending. it ends before i begin. ive drawn this bullshit line too many times. there is no me. there is no you. there is only is. we are ilkasd floating. we are not floating. hey, keep this positive. keep this constructive. i am paper mache. i am cardboard cutouts. i am construction paper. reds. frayed edges. torn, not cut. not cut with big scissors. but with the ones that split and fold the paper. there is no end. there is no fucking end. but i will make a path. i will open these doors and i will let myself go i will find my path. i will lose my shoes and walk along a path that i have long forgotten. i will toughen these soles. i will let them bleed and scab. becasue this is my path. and only i can walk it. oh jesus fuck, how miserable does that fucking sound. how goddamn cliched. but at least as the sky. as the sky forgets its name and the morning forget to call, i will find a place where i make sense i will find a place where, when i wake. when i write these fucking things i wont be hitting the goddamn back space nearly as often as i ahve this is my mind and it will be slowly opening one freewrite at a time. one page ata time. warts n all.