beat the drums and yell.

"nathan is excited for grilled oysters at the arbor day barbeque."

here is something i wrote:

pale paints/

it’s all dead now. the stone from a fruit.

no matter how far I may walk out. You always bring me home.

if there is the deep. if the water gets so dark that it seems royal purple.

can’t there also be that white sky?

the pale paint that sucks the day down the mountains and swirls our evenings evenly. like brushes dipped with liquid pastel into a cup of clean water.

i have two small feet.

and I want to stand. stand firmly in place.

yet still I focus on the stones from the fruit and let the rest rot.

the textile skin flavored sweetly on the trees i keep killing.

i thought there was a cure inside my hands.

i thought there was a pressure too overwhelming to ever live without.

i thought control was mine to own.

You always bring me home. no matter how far I may walk out.

the stone from a fruit. it’s all dead now.