walking through words

running
sweat in my eyes
trying to see past my own red nose
or tears
tears are trite
forget them, go with sweat
stink of salt stinging
a whole being pushing
out through clogged holes
orifices
limbs left and lost to the landscape
movement perpetuating movement
burning skin burning lungs
stopping
to feel the difference in stillness
moving again before rest
settles in distracts from the unweathered path
how many lost and losing and lying and dying poems can we can i write
before forceful rest conquers these lovely joints

I'm just kind of going with it. I really default to sad, lost, fighting themes, don't I? The fighting is nice (yep, I'm going to stick with that statement).

a description

Brown, maybe tan, bookcases lie on top of one another in a Tetris shape. They have not completed a row. Cubic squares teem with books organized by weight, and the colors interestingly have a harmony. This collection comes from years of buying too many books, mostly in paperback with gaudy covers to balance the austere bindings of the hardcover release. The blood red spine of a Masonic history captures the attention and sends it away to find all other reds. Two are prominent: an essay collection on gender and the illegal Mein Kampf. Scanning away, near the window leans a singular green cookbook. The pages have the wavy and stained quality of recipes attempted. This geologic record keeps the quality of the work secret. Atop of the precarious overhang, lays the cat. She flaunts her white belly and pink nipples, lazily waving her tail. Her spot. She watches. The wind picks up the checkered, green curtain and hides her for a moment. Air movement livens the room and relieves the swollen heat. The cat jumps to the windowsill to inspect the world for birds.

I want to work on my descriptions a bit. What do you think? Do you see this? What pops? What is confusing? I guess I'm asking for feedback.

a little bit of something

once the sun rises, there is no turning back. you have to leave behind the creativity and hallucinations of night. you will not be protected. it is okay if you are afraid. it is not okay for you to stop. stopping equals death. even bad decisions are preferable to stasis. this journey will not and cannot let up. the end is your end. only you can choose when to stop.

I wanted to write something in prose. It's a small piece that fits somewhere in something (specificity!).