pretentious roadkill metaphor

i keep waiting for the day my therapist will chase me out of her office and into the noisy street

even when my skull has fractured and my bones are dust, my scratched corneas will be coated in undeserving tears while the vultures pick me clean

there's only so many hours you can spend in a cold lake before the rescue team realizes you want to freeze

and so i'm running out of time to do something with these fleeting feelings

write a song about it? one that tells everyone how real the dying boy's cries were

my sorrow, my paint brush, something of value i can actually use to create something interesting- it paralyzes me. 

are we all walking rough drafts waiting to be flushed out?

not a tree falling hoping to be heard, but the weeds crawling the forest floor. waking up with a pit in my stomach as the soft earth makes me into something useful.

(posted this one on livejournal too bc im lazy! and don't feel like revising another old one hehe)