there's beauty bark all around my home. sitting there like an accusation, it seems to say that it's time for me to grow up and get a mortage, but i'm not ready to have a mortgage or anything of that sort. not a baby or a real job or a span of life insurance payments.

the beauty bark accuses me, with frost on its lips, having nothing to say and saying it anyway. and i can't listen anymore. the beauty bark wants me to make of myself what my parents thought their firstborn would make of himself (i was supposed to be a boy). but i'm not. i'm nothing. your average twenty-something with an abused artistic soul that no one understands (because nothing artistic really is brilliant, rather expected). so i sit before a keyboard and try to type what i'm feeling onto confusing letters.

qwerty

the frost sparkles under the streetlights. the frost shines. i want to go to bed with someone who isn't here. this is what my geneological heritage has yielded. wouldn't they be ashamed if they knew?