It is the weekend

Or the holiday

And I lay entwined in my sheets

Nakedly languid despite the cold that threatens to penetrate from beyond my glass doors

Outside the world is crisp in its winterness

Branches Stripped of all colour and life

So that you could almost imagine the trees to be dead and the world to be made up of myriad wooden corpses who hold up their spiny hands in a grand and silent "why?!"

Here I lay

Myself Stripped bare

Simmering in my own nature

Unwashed and uncombed

I luxuriate in my dirtiness

Staining my bed with the scent of me

My fingers caught up in the dirty weed like tendrils of my matted hair

I am like the trees, and have shed the things that keep me growing in this world

I have taken a moment

And in this breath

I indulge in my own honesty

Thinking in a somewhat bemused fashion of the ways in which we live our life

In constant strive for the successful completion of whatever game we play

Gleaming in the glossy threads of our lies

Bejeweled with false intention and

Painted upon by a self-sustained dissatisfaction

Here I lie in repose

Bathing in the raw simplicity of what is

And I will take this breath

And extended it out

For as long as I possibly can



A Poem for The Sea

A Poem for The Sea