waiting. for the crash to take place. but disappointed.
will collide tomorrow?
confessed by Luke at 19:30 0 observation (s)
confessed by Luke at 04:29 0 observation (s)
confessed by Luke at 04:28 0 observation (s)
These poems do not live: it's a sad diagnosis.
They grew their toes and fingers well enough,
Their little foreheads bulged with concentration.
If they missed out on walking about like people
It wasn't for any lack of mother-love.
[...]
They are not pigs, they are not even fish,
Though they have a piggy and a fishy air -
It would be better if they were alive, and that's what they were.
But they are dead, and their mother near dead with distraction,
And they stupidly stare and do not speak of her.
Sylvia Plath