Tags: april

LZ spring fling shoot

(no subject)

the april skies shed tears,
eyes red & swollen.
poor metaphor or no,
i cannot help but feel the comradery;
the sky, the clouds, the ground,
they are my friends, my confidants.
we will hurt & cry together,
never caring what march or june
may think of us later.
the seasons change & so do we-
but april holds a part of me.
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    tired tired
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46, the sex she slipped into my coffee

(no subject)

"April, come she will."* Who am I to wish away time, when I am struggling to maintain it? My cellphone, my bedroom, my computer, my handshake, etc.: what do these things make me? Do they make me valid, and clear? Does my name mess you up, along with my shifty eyes? My total lack of observation for the trivial things, while I watch intently the big picture (which keeps getting bigger, and bigger.)
    Who am I to waste away in the idea, not the sense, of you? Let's face it, sweetheart, we both have completely different ideas of each other than we actually are. Let's get realistic, children! Then, who am I to spew out words of wisdom when I have no need for acclaim? I have a reputation of being the girl who hangs out with the young kids, and laughs way too loud. Screams way too loud. Sings way too loud. Does everything way too loud. Does that make me ugly? Does that stain my blessedness? Am I ugly because I choose to be happy?
    Who am I to think that there is no higher power? That I am my highest power, in complete control of my life. What do I know of power, religion, love, sex, and violence (violence, violence, fucking violence, violence, violence.) What does the 90lb, 5'1" woman know of strength? Who is she to demand respect, with a vehement glare, a bordering supercilious tone, and small tits?
    My time, pray love, is wasted on wanting. Forever is wasted on wishing. My million dollar love affair has left me emotionally bankrupt. I say, do you have the correct time?

*April Come She Will is a nursery rhyme, put to music by Simon and Garfunkel.
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As of 3.19.04

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