dirt verse

I'll work until I'm no longer able walk until I'm no longer able Speak this written language I've come to trust more than memory. keep secrets I've long forgotten, including my own. and mama, I've got so many. make mountains out of mohills, see I already know balance doesn't exist - and how irrational it is to search for it. --I stay up late, later than what you think late is, later than that, motherfucker. next day carry out the impossible, surviving on just caffeine and sugary treats. blame my headache on the drop in barometric pressure I tell people when they ask, I'm delicate like that. except that I'm not. All I really ever aim for is freedom, to be set free. from my first breath, I've only belonged to myself.... until my last, I'll only belong to you.. until then, expect this: snickering toile crying hard misbehaving smoking planning dreaming watching trees missing the ocean misreading gestures, until I

We plan to leave this house in 7 months or so.  We've been here going on 9 years; this is the longest I've lived anywhere since I was a kid. This little, grey house on the corner, built in 1938, is not without it's  charm...hardwoods, nooks, built-in shelves, scalloped wood detailing, and trees outside that grow lush for summertime. When it's windy and warm, the song of their sway goes deep into your lungs and breaths for you, if you let it. In the Fall, you have all pecans you need for Thanksgiving, all the time giving.  The front door faces north, so when a cold front rolls through, the wind pushes our old door in, and the windchime, typically lazy, becomes frantic and loud.  This is how I know to reach for a warmer jacket.  What she lacks are washer/dryer connections, and I'm officially over the laundromat, truth be told.  She lacks modern heat and air.  The summer is dreadful, but the watermelon you cut up and eat on the front porch is all the more sweet and sat