I am clinging to the cotton.
Sitting in a chair barely holding together.
I hate the cold air,
when you step outside you shrink into a twisted mess,
old beyond your years,
just trying to cling to the cotton.
What nonsense.
Somehow poetry is grander when
you hate someone or miss someone -
either way.
I don't miss anyone and hating people
just makes me look foolish because
no matter how much I hate
there will always be a greater number of
those who hate me more.
I am thinking of a woman.
A young woman.
She lives around the corner and
for whatever reason I
think of her.
She doesn't make any sense
and I think she might be insane.
On second thought
maybe she is just my type.
If it aint broke...
I bet she clings to cotton too.
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