are you?
where?
did the rounds a million times just checking everywhere.
where
are you?
where?
looked in every crevice-cryptic-cleverclogs joke we've shared.
and didn't find you.
ah well. guess one of us has to stay put while the other is looking. you've obviously had that grand idea again and are stood in the farthest new place not looking at people, waiting for me to retrieve you.
ah well. you'll be waiting for a while. guess it was my turn someone found me for once. found me and said it. 'i found you'. and their toes really curled with comfort and their smile widened with the seriousness of what makes you guffaw and tears your heart out simultaneously and whilst undoing your popping button top they laugh at what's beneath it and profess salvation of their soul and inability to live outside your aura.
it's my turn now. but i think there is no queue and i'm feeling a little too 'on sale' parading around with my eggs all in this humongous basket made out of doilies, hearts and yellowing pages of romance novels scary ladies read on the beach whilst smoking long cigarettes. i should have listened to the academics amongst us warning me of expressing more than you can receive. but i honestly thought i could take it. honest to god. cross my heart.
the academics warned me against smoking too. and did i listen? boy did i listen. i listened alright. but was hoping i was cheesier than them with more flair for attracting finders with more flair for becoming a keeper.
with more pizazz to convince people to see me like i see them. to burn the rose-tinted 70s hippy bullshit and permanently install disney eyes that widely love wherever they cast their glow at. whispering with cartoon birdlike-properties 'and you and you and you' as they go along. kissing as frequently as they blink.
the academics warned me life wasn't fair and that enjoying your work is crucial to existence. they insisted you have to make your work fun for you. i insisted you have to find a work that is fun for you. that's where we differ, i thought. that and their resistance to seeing how painted tips can genuinely act as an anti-convulsive anti-depressant anti-politicalhell anti-classistbullying anti-beingthelastonetobeacceptedasfiteveranywhere. funny old thoughts they had. you paint your nail, you are immediately anti-intellectual, anti-legal, you might as well be smoking. drugs. and practising. witch. oh whatever. nobody goes down that route if they have support, surely. nobody is curious enough to do something as stupid as smoke or drink or swear, right?
i paint my nails weekly. it is my rescue. you can tell i need it to survive because when you see me with plain, neat & tidy nails i am distracted, too neat and avoidant, my emotional temperature incommunicable, it is like a brick has sat next to the sofa with you and is nodding for you to pour the tea and give it lactofree milk. (you are delusional though if you see an actual brick nod at you. or are possibly tripping on some off ryvitas, mate) Anyway, now you know i've painted my nails, so when you find me you can be sure it is really me.
the academics don't know jack, i suspected. it turns out they did. and are more advanced than i credited them as initially. oh what i'd give to go back and apologise for the errors and embarrassment. oh what i'd give to find words suitable and strong enough to convey to them my love and respect the way they will perceive as 'ok' and won't guilt them into feeling anything other than happiness. basically they were more advanced than me, and now i've reached and possibly exceeded them, with going to university, and being alive and all.
i digress. i am here with my nails and love for academia. i am here with love you can understand. fucking find me already, i'm always here, and i'm always ready. i'm practically your ideal everything and i feed on being smiled at. promise. i don't even need food. ok maybe i do, but you get it. i mean other food. food for thought. food for your soul. good food. food that's good for you. i can feed on you. i do this thing where i suck out all your bad energy and you are left light-headed and happy and you don't even know why. at first i approach the topic with intense hardcore heavy sadness and within seconds you're crying from laughter and you have none left in you at all. it's my trick. for as long as you're near me i make it all go away. and i don't need food. i need you.
whoever you are.
wherever you went.
where?
are you?
where?
or how?
where?
did the rounds a million times just checking everywhere.
where
are you?
where?
looked in every crevice-cryptic-cleverclogs joke we've shared.
and didn't find you.
ah well. guess one of us has to stay put while the other is looking. you've obviously had that grand idea again and are stood in the farthest new place not looking at people, waiting for me to retrieve you.
ah well. you'll be waiting for a while. guess it was my turn someone found me for once. found me and said it. 'i found you'. and their toes really curled with comfort and their smile widened with the seriousness of what makes you guffaw and tears your heart out simultaneously and whilst undoing your popping button top they laugh at what's beneath it and profess salvation of their soul and inability to live outside your aura.
it's my turn now. but i think there is no queue and i'm feeling a little too 'on sale' parading around with my eggs all in this humongous basket made out of doilies, hearts and yellowing pages of romance novels scary ladies read on the beach whilst smoking long cigarettes. i should have listened to the academics amongst us warning me of expressing more than you can receive. but i honestly thought i could take it. honest to god. cross my heart.
the academics warned me against smoking too. and did i listen? boy did i listen. i listened alright. but was hoping i was cheesier than them with more flair for attracting finders with more flair for becoming a keeper.
with more pizazz to convince people to see me like i see them. to burn the rose-tinted 70s hippy bullshit and permanently install disney eyes that widely love wherever they cast their glow at. whispering with cartoon birdlike-properties 'and you and you and you' as they go along. kissing as frequently as they blink.
the academics warned me life wasn't fair and that enjoying your work is crucial to existence. they insisted you have to make your work fun for you. i insisted you have to find a work that is fun for you. that's where we differ, i thought. that and their resistance to seeing how painted tips can genuinely act as an anti-convulsive anti-depressant anti-politicalhell anti-classistbullying anti-beingthelastonetobeacceptedasfiteveranywhere. funny old thoughts they had. you paint your nail, you are immediately anti-intellectual, anti-legal, you might as well be smoking. drugs. and practising. witch. oh whatever. nobody goes down that route if they have support, surely. nobody is curious enough to do something as stupid as smoke or drink or swear, right?
i paint my nails weekly. it is my rescue. you can tell i need it to survive because when you see me with plain, neat & tidy nails i am distracted, too neat and avoidant, my emotional temperature incommunicable, it is like a brick has sat next to the sofa with you and is nodding for you to pour the tea and give it lactofree milk. (you are delusional though if you see an actual brick nod at you. or are possibly tripping on some off ryvitas, mate) Anyway, now you know i've painted my nails, so when you find me you can be sure it is really me.
the academics don't know jack, i suspected. it turns out they did. and are more advanced than i credited them as initially. oh what i'd give to go back and apologise for the errors and embarrassment. oh what i'd give to find words suitable and strong enough to convey to them my love and respect the way they will perceive as 'ok' and won't guilt them into feeling anything other than happiness. basically they were more advanced than me, and now i've reached and possibly exceeded them, with going to university, and being alive and all.
i digress. i am here with my nails and love for academia. i am here with love you can understand. fucking find me already, i'm always here, and i'm always ready. i'm practically your ideal everything and i feed on being smiled at. promise. i don't even need food. ok maybe i do, but you get it. i mean other food. food for thought. food for your soul. good food. food that's good for you. i can feed on you. i do this thing where i suck out all your bad energy and you are left light-headed and happy and you don't even know why. at first i approach the topic with intense hardcore heavy sadness and within seconds you're crying from laughter and you have none left in you at all. it's my trick. for as long as you're near me i make it all go away. and i don't need food. i need you.
whoever you are.
wherever you went.
where?
are you?
where?
or how?
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