i don't know with the title.
what about patterns, huh?
anyway, i'm turning 20 in 7 or 6 days.
way too old. for me and my piled-up goals.
i have been writing poems, always flinging pens and paper (almost always together) and sometimes feeling feverish with words UNfound.
there is this self-project i am seriously contemplating (and, oh yes subconscious vera, i have started with it... in limited words and hazy imagery...)
i'm still alive, huh?
back with the project.. it will be called
10 before 20.
the second line goes:
fresh as a tomato in red bulginess and wet skin.
it's not a poem.
not a poem.
anyway, now that i've let out that little plan of mine in the open, i'm having this paranoia that it will never be finished, never be realized.
it's like an omen.
when i say it out before it's even finished, it's doomed to death. or if it will be finished, doomed to mediocrity.
did i say doomed to death?
ha! there goes my words... to quote, "feeling feverish with words UNfound. "
i've got to stop.
wait till i get my mind straight.
you'd cry more.