sharper than a knife.

i put my poem up earlier. i had decided yesterday that would be an appropriate entry for this, the first day of spring on my calendar, so i went ahead and typed up the pretty little thing.

i was wrong about it's appropriateness.

no spring, no sweet frolic. no. today is black tar boiling up from the depths of my heart and the day wasted. the threshold crossed drunk on pain, curled on my knees on the floor.

reaching, always reaching, never touching.

and so.

so.

what will this year become? will i really be able to accomplish any thing at all? i doubt i have what it takes.

and all the talk circles around and around, endlessly biting it's own tail in cannibalistic glee. at least he is doing something with his life, at least he is making something with it, even if all the corbies pick at his words and flesh and crow about how fucked up he is. at least he isn't wasting it. there are enough of us still sitting in basements of our making, at least he got out of his.

at least there's that.