Start at the bottom of the stairs
White page conceals nothing Endless production of burnt toast burnt mind black whispering around the edges and an Innumerable repetition of awake before awake before awakeskip a step
factory production mimicking thought and ceaseless tiptoes one foot and the next slam down return to the same point not point stabbed sharp or lacerating just wholly blunt, vacillating, there are words you cannot use if you cannot feel them you have no touch of no way of knowing its etymology or where this culminates, if you have no way of hunting yourself back to the commencement or the delivery and only then start at the bottom of these same wooden stairs or you’ll never get to the top of them.
I’m going to start uploading my old poetry on here. The formatting is a bit messy because I have 0 aptitude for technology.