a chosen solitude and my habits saw to that, I’ve thrown my motor skills down well more of a fumble and crash. So by myself I sit on this warm concrete past listening to sounds of loneliness not in its purest because there’s a desperate source of connection biding its time in a tile shape. Birds flying, stalking the bushes surviving in a world we will create
With mosquitoes on my legs I don’t know what’s itching me more. The urge to get out or to stay on the floor. With this slow beat temp playing its blessings, no ones listening no ones listening I didn’t even give them a chance. Giving me a headache turning it off and leaving my self worth up to chance.