my morphine sister resides in the pockets of my brain. my brain, too jam packed, plays blues and jazz whenever it rains. its like an endless loop of Miles Davis and sad saxophones. my fingertips are searching for something new, they reach out into darkness, searching for you.
one day, i'm gonna write a novel
and it's going to be called, Hurricane Season
and it won't have nothin to do with
the weather.
my melancholy heart is clipped onto the clothesline, flailing in the wind. my frozen fleshy belly counts to 10 and wishes it had other things to do. You just cant help this sickness. what do you do with all this flesh & bone, brains & soul, perfect comedic timing, the ability to empathize, and the quick wit to put an out of place comment back in line. Just what do you do, morphine sister?
her glass eyes, distant and cold say nothing
to replace the silence.
when i write that novel, things are gonna change then.
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