i've never been good with change

but i hate it when it all stays the same.

Drunk from the street and from feeling, seeing, hearing everything at once.

I carry inside my heart,
As in a chest too full to shut,
All the places where I've been,
All the ports at which I've called,
All the sights I've seen through windows and portholes
And from quarterdecks, dreaming,
And all of this, which is so much, is nothing next to what I want.

kinda sorta miss you heaps, loser.

one of these days your heart will stop and play its final beat.

i'm not going to make the effort anymore.

just let it all fall in line.

I thought I understood it. That I could grasp it.
But I didn't, not really. Only the smudgeness of it, the pink-slippered, all-containered, semi-precious eagerness of it.
I didn't realise that it would sometimes be more than whole,
that the wholeness was a rather luxurious idea.
Because it's the halves that halve you in half.
Didn't know, don't know,
about the in-between bits,

the gory bits of you

and gory bits of me.