RANDOM STUFF THAT I TELL MYSELF I WILL WRITE
RANDOM STUFF THAT I TELL MYSELF I WILL WRITE
RSTITMIWW - Have you’ve ever spent days rotting in bed telling yourself that you’re going to do something, just to never get around to doing it? I have, multiple times, but that will stop, hopefully soon. Hopefully with this, I will push myself to write something more frequently instead of waiting for my birthday to post a paragraph.
RSTITMIWW (2) - MISLAID
To be quite honest, I haven’t put much of thought into this one or any piece in this series. Much like the notes app on your phone, I just like to randomly write about what I’m thinking or feeling at the time; all in hopes that no one would ever see it. Who knows where any of these will go, or where they’ll take me, but where they won’t end up living empty on my phone taking up storage: that’s for some random sever to handle now.
To be fair, I miss home. I miss the blossoms of spring. I miss the morning doves chirping in outside of my window, waking me up at the crack of dawn. I miss watching the sun rise on top of all of your manufactured mountains, The orangish glow that makes it way down the road. I miss looking out of my window, looking down at the people walking by. I miss the sounds of the train stopping nearby, the loud shrieking of pieces of metal sliding along each other. The round wheels shaving along the top each of the train tracks. I miss the flowers that used to bloom along this time of year. Along the cracks of the pavement, and of the building foundations, they some how manage to grow. More than just the flowers, the trains, the people, and building, there is no place like home, and i miss it more than ever.
RSTITMIWW (1) - BLOSSOMS
It all begins with an idea.
I don’t know how you do it? I expect much from you, strive to see the excellence in you. I don’t know how you do it, given how much I push on top you. With how often I neglect to feed you, give you attention. I forget to nurture you. Yet you still do it. I’ve split you in half, cut you into two, yet you still manage to push it through. I’ve striked a blade across you more than once, all in hopes of getting ride of your hideous parts. As the sap dries along the stems that I’ve cut off, and edges change color, from green to yellow, from yellow to brown, You still manage to keep on going. I fill myself with regret that I sliced you ever so clean, I then worry of what to wear, what to clean, I hate the stains this sap leaves behind, but I have only myself to blame. I worry too much; days would have passed before I feed you once more. Despite the dry soil, you some how managed to grow two new leaves. I don’t know how you do it, you’ve been cut and sliced, neglected and left to rot, yet you still manage to pull through. I look to myself and wonder, how do you do it?