Fill your pockets up with earth

In sleep, thinking doesn't exist anymore, my head separates itself from the rest of me and floats up somewhere above the horizon line, the line at which I can't seem to stop staring. There are better parts of the sky that have been left undiscovered by my eyes, but I am focused on a destination more outwards. I wonder what is over that wall and as I get closer, it stays the same distance away; perhaps I wasn't moving any closer in the first place. They tell me I was anyways, though, and at least that gives me hope. As tragically fake as that hope is, it's all they have to give me. They've lost it all for themselves, and in an unselfish manner, they scoop their nothingness out of their hearts and place it in my out reaching cupped hands. I try to look pleased with their bountiful gifts, but inside I am hot with anger and frustration. I throw it all away when no one is looking so I can instead search for it myself. On my hands and knees, I dig through moist, warm soil and mulch and the dirt under my finger nails makes me feel alive, at least, only for a little while. The inevitable cleansing comes all too soon afterward, and once again I am pure and white, just as they want me. I am flaky and raw from all the scrubbing but they dig with their pens and needles into my empty flesh, regardless of my screaming. After they have finished their job, I close my eyes, and let myself fall asleep. As I dream, under eyelids filled with blood, I am floating somewhere, up above the horizon line. I am straining to move outward.






I draw ugly stuff sometimes. alot.