INT. BEDROOM- APT. HAPPY GROVE, BUSHWICK NY -- NIGHT
My roommate just went to go fuck her boy toy of the night and I sit here wondering what is it that I'm supposed to be doing right now. I guess getting baked is starting to manage thoughts to become aroused and a text could "make it work". Of helping me find manners more intense than what they're supposed to be. I always overthink things, right. So.
anyways, I thought to myself one day.
INSERT TEXT: "WHAT'S THE POINT?"
You see patterns, tendencies, some would say,
of how it all might go one way. Her way. My way.
The only way. The way it always goes. It just
goes.
The way you find yourself waiting for another call.
A text. Some sort of love con quest,
not "con queso", because sex tends to make things
difficult. And there's no point in trying to make
something beautiful out of something that
flourished and died already.
Or so she believes.
You see, flowers die because you take them from their root.
And here lies the problem I can't compute
we all can't seem to uncover a solution
to get away. From everything that not even sunshine can re array.
A pattern of breaking from the way, the only way.
Her way.
INSERT TEXT: I AM ON HIATUS
When you see patterns, and tendencies,
you try and steer away. But flowers
in spite of Global Warming,
still come back in May.
And roots form again.
It's a tendency we can't change.
Try to remember whose uprooting
destroyed the flourished garden, and regardless,
it's a stupid tendency to think about her flowers
any ways.
