This phone will be the death of me.

think myself to pieces. and writing too fast to keep up. make up for true blues and dead reds. that doesn't even make sense. but nothing ever does anymore it seems. rhymes and (no) reasons. just like random poems via text messages at three in the morning. I can't wait until autumn and winter. visible breath and brilliant burning colors of the leaves are somehow associated with feeling okay to me. and just as easily as you can run home from problems, you can run home TO them. journal writing counts. its funny/terrible how its kind of what I'm known for now. and all this time, I've wanted to be so much more. this may be all (the friend) I have.

written while seated on a bench at the Orange County Museum of Art. "happy places" and melancholy thoughts.