a not so special-not-epiphany

vent warning. if you read, thanks for your time. this is me, my "mess" in words.

a not so special-not-epiphany typed by numb fingers

where do i begin
where do i lay my eyes on
where do i go from here
if only the barn called out for me
with stars gleefully spiraling in the pits of my knuckles
sore, sour, hurting but hiding it beneath empty chuckles, no, breathing words
music only does so little to guide
truthfully i am no poet
no label, no word
no words could express the injustice of living
living, not even living just passing through
when i fucking know that problem was never you
could words be simple for once?
could anything?
she once had the whole world stuffed away in the apples of her rising, amber cheeks
yet light poured out so often visitors would be blinded, no, stunned by the beauty
now she sits
the world
waiting to be seen again.

like
the girl, apple skin left to feel only the fleeting sun
waiting for her apples to find themselves once more.
no letter could end the amount of suffering the little girl goes through
waiting. waiting. waiting. waiting. waiting. waiting while no one cares to find her anymore

so i leave with the last letter on the alphabet
seems about right
like my childhood
already a meaningless

.
?
no.
thats a feeling.
this is on you.
you know where the apples hide.
dont be so fucking naive.



z