shakinghandsmedia

Hanging blankets with screws and safety pins,
swearing to never come out of our fortress.
The one who gives me life sometimes makes me want to die.
And yet you make me live.
Creativity and vivacious passion filling the room to the brim.
We love as we cook chicken teriyaki and french fried potatoes.
We love as cinema burns our retinas
and we stop remembering what television shows are.
We love as records play and play and play and play.
We love as your hairs part down the middle and grow out of your upper lip.
We love as we make ancient markings on our walls
so people will remember us years from now.
We love as we make rich noises from strings and air.
ABC’s.
NYC.
ACDC.
You dream of a dream that no sleep can conjure.
You hold to hope that should have been broken.
We praise our community.
Our own personal Kerouac. Ginsberg. Cassidy. Burroughs.
Our beautiful group of disheartened ex-christians
fucking and loving and cussing and writing.
Asteroids rotting our brains
and our weary bones aching more with each passing day.
Your leg twitches as you lie next to me in peaceful slumber.
Re-watching sitcoms from the glow of my personal machine.
Bliss is bleeding into ruin.
Love bleeding into hate.
Contentment bleeding into desire.