I'm waiting for the words to mean something for the poetry to characterize the experiences which mere thoughts cannot explain. I am waiting for these words to transport my brain into another plane, where things start to make sense, or a place where, at least, I can watch chaos from a distance.
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Soaking up the rain and whipping spit of the waves, as he stood next to the ocean of my memory, a fire hydrant in a red windbreaker, glaring...
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"Well...that was dramatic." I didn't know what he meant until I saw the ink spilled everywhere and the moths in her hair like ...