My war poem has started to take a shape, which has made me feel a bit queasy. My dad is not going to work today and has taken it upon himself to indulge a very rare inclination to clean stuff.
Mostly outside my bedroom door where the stair gates clangs like fuck when its battered repeatedly off the wall. Good for him to show a bit of house pride, I might empty my ashtray in his honour.
Are they 70% plus? They must be the last ones got 89% and rereading them they certainly weren't as well drafted or worked out. Maybe his expectations will be a lot higher though. I'm sure he won't keep me waiting long..
I'm so proud of my little big daffodil, yellow and proud. Stretching out as far as it can, even in a blizzard because it knows every spring is the only spring. With my insides/out.