A wilted lotus garden in the backyard. Seedlings gilded with white veins of rot. Delicate waterings of whispered suggestions can't rinse out poor soil. Digging in the dirt beside dying flowers. Trying to find a place to bury a broken jaw and unpainted eyes. The mold on tree roots breathes out first-person syllables in the evenings. Strictly self-aggrandizing, even when greeted with noncommital silence. Solipsism as the name for ubiquitous weeds.
11:44 p.m. - 2019-05-08
Recent entries:
What Should Have Been Pleasant - 2019-05-22
Unruinable - 2019-05-22
Putrescent Promises - 2019-05-13
Too Esoteric - 2019-05-13
Puzzle Metaphor - 2019-05-08
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