you are always told to write from the heart, but that is a a tip that is easy to let slip. most often, i feel shrouded by the sheer possibility of failing at the action of writing, that i instead decide it is just easier to not begin a project or piece, and slowly, the days slip by and the deadlines pass, and i avoid the class, professor, and everyone's eye contact when i do attend.

in this way, anxiety controls me sometimes. i let it. i want it curbed and controlled again. is it a word which is brought to life by those cloudy day thoughts. can i just send this self-professed "anxiety" if such a wicked thing even exists off to somewhere wonderful--perhaps in a balloon, or on the back of a white winged bird. can i let it land in an old oak? or atop a mountain peak? can it belong between the blades of dewy grasses? in a garden or greenhouse full of peonies, tulips, and lilacs?

can it beautify itself if i choose such futures for it? can i make an anxiety a positive thing? direct it toward a telos, or greater purpose in life... if it is truth on these pages, then it can be truth in the word, if i just tell myself not to be anxious. not to agree that there is such thing as anxiety. to just genuinely care and be stubborn about myself procrastination. create a system, a controlled, monitored system and absolutely stick to it because if i don't--i know that there would be awful, terrible repercussions, like falling back off track. going into the hole again, that dark pit of doom. impending fears. anxiety, be gone. become thinner, and thinner until you no longer exist. take all the time you need to back your heavy bags that have made my bones ache, my brain meet sad fates. end it. it shall be gone.

dont be patient with it. there is no time to waste. you can't have me. you can't have me.

Wouldn't you like to know why...

The heart is a vindictive son of a gun.

Savannah (always summer)

A city that speaks of summer; always. A winter mist, masks itself in the shape of a cumuli creeps itself on the outer radius of Savannah; hiding the erotics, alcoholics, and lost wanderers akin.

When you wake up--the eyes are not open quite wide enough yet/ you see slant. The world imbalanced, disproportionate, unparalleled and uncontrolled. Drink strong coffee, fry an egg, read the news, and for the finale write to life the mundane.

Profound words, hidden in the library. Can you find them? 

death to impertinence and listlessness of life.
revive my salaciousness, over-indulgence and fervor for life.

"But it's too late, I know that it's too late."

Sometimes the hybrid of my minds (the mad and the sane) reach an interlude. The mad one wants to have you, and the sane one says every variation of "NO".