thoughtsonthebus

This is one of those moments

where prose

exists in an alternate place

devoid of life yet space

envelopes it like a cold lover.

 

And yet it has appeared

from deep beneath the

subterranean fears

of failure and pointlessness

it’s a bit of mess

yet erase I do not

with this blue ink. stop.

This is one of those nights

where words

have no meaning

devoid of feeling

taunting me with their shy revealing.

Should I keep going

too-ing & fro-ing

pushing & pulling the ever tight jumper of acceptance.