Every bit of me tries to stay in the present even though
I cannot help but race around the time in my head, the pounding maniacal self inside this skull that refuses to be content with the things a life are made of;
and I know of heroin that you are engulfed by pleasure waves streaming through your veins and that is why white women in their mid-thirties berated us to choose wisely and
what was I but someone who could choose.
Gratefulness is always expected of those allowed to be. My issues with God always came down to this, the measure of where my gratefulness should be and where it was and is.
I am only afraid because I never let myself slow down and it is tiring, and now I take sleeping pills to sleep and then I can never quite manage to be awake.