Drenched

so these are the juices that drip from my soul. Colorless words that insist on having life. It comes bursting out of me, much like Bukowski begs. Usually when I am unprepared,when the closest thing I have to a piece of paper is my left hand and a dying pen. Disgust can fill me, but the beauty still lerks. Leaving a redolence of fall in it's absence. In a corner I hide, pad of paper in hand, observing earthy wonders through new metaphorical lenses. Their rims are green with some hipster floral print, with gold hinges that catch the light. perception adjusters, I call them. They cannot be seen, for they don't exist. I picked them up at the flea market two days ago. I lick the lead tip of my pencil, but feed it to the ground in disregard. 


I was told once never to start a sentence off with words like 'so'. Still, I can feel ground underneath,everything remains.
It's love that I am sick with.

xo. Natalie