I'm all over and soaked in rebellion and confusion, like a lost child who lost himself. Standing near the check out counter waiting for someone to feel bad and reach out with scissor-like hands and short spines no confusion anymore, I say. Alas! I shall prevail. And the rest. It's very dark and there are no candles lit for fear of the grip of sleep finally making sense, which would be odd but favourable. All over you can call eclectic, waiting for a dictionary definition with my picture beside it and someone with an awkward step towards me with no mud on their boots. Boot prints all over my chest. I can still make the silliest youthful angst seem poetic, if I try hard enough.
But, when I go t o s l e e p e v e r y t h i n g w i l l bethes a me.
(could've used more adjectives (losthisdescriptiveedge)
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