Dust and old magazines

Ramblings from 1997 I've never realized how close i am to the other side. If I jump, the cracks will drag me down between empty spaces that crawl up the slant on the way up. Looking up at the buildings looking down at my figure. Settling around me, these grotesque figures slipping in and out further with every word. Slipping deeper into the depressions I have called my life. A clutter of dust and old magazines Just a mess of old images and patterns repeating. Blurred visions like photographs that never come out clear. Like looking through the bruising blurry eyes at patterns of everyday life. Constantly blinking, drinking, and flying through green kitchens. Forward wandering of destination less X's and lies called editorials. Inconclusive research and scholarships wasted. I'm unfinished, like my poems. The list goes on. To the beginning of a constant screaming whisper of the one who tiptoes on plastic wrapping behind the broken mirror a reflection of my life as I stood grounded. again