over par.

you know i want to write.. so much.

i know she wants to write.

i know she wants me to write.

so, yeh.

look around yr room, don't you see a kind of link.

like, say, the balled up sock in the corner, the other of which you've never seen in living history.

and the old, Old OLD Beatles tape that just sits on top of the player, the kind of thing that yr only gonna TRY to play on a hot Sunday.

the unfinished salad on the edge of the bed.

the rusted wine goblet that you love so much, and have stood up for it when everyone wanted to throw it out.

the set of novels that have just been given to you, and you've been told they're good, but you KNOW yr never gna read them.

all these things kind of look to you, stare at you.

the things that you try to USE when yr writing shit.

or when yr sitting infront of the door, staring in space.

the creepy vibes of the goblet, the tape reminding you of a much simpler time, when people believed in free love.

the sock, significant, reminding you of the amount of football you used to play after you'd finish yr homework, when you were in seventh grade.

my room is creepy.

yes it is.

i love you arshiya.

*~*

pick yr poison.