85 Days, 16 Hours and 25 Minutes.
Mail still arrives for my father.
He died almost four years ago.
Sometimes it hurts to see the envelopes.
Sometimes it feels like a nice reminder.
Sometimes it feels like nothing.
Strange how normal these feelings become.
Three years now I’ve payed permanent tribute on my arm.
Inked like I had just startled an octopus.
I’d get so much more done with eight arms and legs.
I wonder if you would be able to think clearer with that many limbs?
Maybe it wouldn’t take so long to cap the spill.
Would it be easier to multi-task?
I’m such a klutz, I’d probably just get tangled up.
I am tangled up still.
Life never gets easier, but who am I to complain?
If I were an octopus I’d have a hand to give,
I’d just hope not to be covered in oil.
No sense in crying over spilled filth.
Let’s just throw some newspaper on it,
and call it a day.
-
aeonra liked this
-
riannashanz liked this
-
logobrn posted this
