Rain drops hit the roof. Echoing, into my mind pulsing.
. . .hasn't called.
Pacing, cleaning, smoking, jerking off to the insanities; incessant whispers of doom.
Mild panic loves to feed on caffenated synapses mildy overwrought with self loathing.
Doubt creeps like a black cat stalking a soul .
Faith is all one needs to dig out of the hole.
Cease! Desist! . . .the drawing of conclusions derived from delusions.
She loves you.
But she hates her self and that is deadly.
Love myself, and brace for whatever comes my way.
Prepare to face it and embrace. . .
Please, Dude just this once.
A Little Grace
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