Hipsterfag

it's such a shame that i've only bursts of inspiration to write. i would like to say, "here. this is it; i'll write at the least one poem every day." but, it seems, as i've been told, you can only ever lead a horse to water. perhaps i'm a camel.

you've pulled time from your denim pockets tied to the seams by a golden thread, and you've told me to wait among grasslands that i've only seen on thirty-five millimeter film. how long before your seams wear to skin, and how long before the winter's frost spreads? i've been neglecting writing for far too long. sure, i have a file i need to edit, a rough, and yes, i have a hero's journey attempt just laying waste in yet another downtrodden folder. we've all got our crosses to bear, haven't we? i'll get there sometime. until then, to more eagles and phoenix, hurrah!

it's such a strange thing, to fear the summer. but i do. it's not the two and a half months of freedom, or the endless summer heat, and it's not even the aspect of stripping down to my bare essentials and trying to keep my head above water, but it's the threat of uncertainty that looms over my shoulder and plays the puppeteer, ruthlessly dictating my actions. i like planning, and i like knowing, and i like control. it's comforting, to me, when i walk with my head down and gaze at pavement. i can breathe easy when my datebook is filled to the brim with different coloured inks all telling me where i'm supposed to be and at what time oh,and