comet

written on June 22, 2008

it's sunday evening. i sit by the open window and i write. i write to drain my head of it's thoughts. to take cascade or what's the scrubby stuff in the green can called? to the insides of my pipes and my roots and my soul and cleanse. it's a cleanser i need. one that comes out in mini scrub brushes with blinky eyes and bristles that get up and in between. cleansers that go over the ugly and the painful and the filth and leave a trail of clean and pure.

i know i'm under here somewhere.