[no title]

[ScaryDan]

I am not square.
I float above Thursdays,
The bustle below not mine.

I have nothing but air,
and the birds that fly past.
They are fleeting then gone.
I have nothing.

The bustle is everything,
Yet I don't wish for the fleshpress of crowds,
Only the comfortable surrounds of familiarity.

None of this air,
save but in his car at 80 on the freeway,
travelling somewhere to forget in patches,
only to return to rememberances.

I love for the fleeting moments of familiarity and forgetfulness.
Fleeting like the birds.
I float.

[Poeticsiren]

"fleshpress"--now THERE'S one fucking awesome word.

GREAT JOB!

this part reminds me of yoga...and how desperately I need to get involved in it again-

"I love for the fleeting moments of familiarity and forgetfulness.
Fleeting like the birds.
I float. "

I like the wide range of emotions you apply to your writing.

L.

[ScaryDan]

There is actually a major typo in there which completely changes the meaning of the last section but i like it much better like that so i'll leave it

and thanks heaps for the comments Poeticsiren *hugs*