ashesunder

Sitting here thinking of an empty bottle on a wooden staircase miles from me in a realm of wanderers and vagabonds I love to cling to. How I adore their tangled mats of hair, their filthy knees there free tongues ready to embrace any person or conversation. Wanderlust, I think I have that problem etched in my veins. It makes my blood roar to go trudging about until my feet are sore and I have an empty aching for cigarettes. Or the want to hide myself in some chemical story always searching for something of the utmost importance that is never there. Regardless the redness in my soul is happy, my eyes are shining with it's glee and my feet will

Sink me into the day and wrap my blunders into something more worthwhile. Living to grasp what bits of feathered thought might turn this into more than just a dream. Something real, the tangible spot, the piece of someone lying on the floor choking on an ash for half an hour thinking this is the horror, The end has come, I'm really doomed! Makes me happy 'cause no your not, it's hilarious, not terrible and after it's over I'm still laughing years later at an almost death. Why is that so damn funny?! These are the moments that give my ribs their breathing time sucking it all up in glee. today is the first out-pour of a new deviant.