I hide in dark places, but it’s pressure that confines me, binding me to its monotonous struggle to steal my bliss away –

– admittedly, I do poorly with the little things – the tedious grinds of making the day move puts my flow on hold, but this life is not for us alone – I know –

– no rest for the weary, but I’m not really suffering – I have been given the gift of turning sand into boulders –

– most have an angel and a devil on their shoulders, but I have the weight of a miscreant that jumps from side to side – today he stole my pen –

– along with my pride.



Painting our illusions in 108 words a day.


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