Metaphorically Speaking

These patterns involve falling or maybe just tripping over stones or bricks that were used to build the place that you hide in. Or maybe, just maybe they involve you and me as young as school children with cootie shots being irked or miffed or alone or depressed or giving up. Maybe they involve something more like curling up in balls like cats and sleeping like the sun. We're really not as pretty as we try to make it seem. That was more you - less me.

Sometimes I wonder what you possibly have to offer if anything at all - left to try and pull up spades of why I'm thinking of it at all. This is all coming up roses and you're nothing but a garden of cement. I hate to be your metaphor but I have nothing else to give.

So here you go my molding muffin. May your garbage can you call your home be as full of disgust as my eyes are. Dying proof that the best part is only the top, and the bottoms aren't worth saving.