The Deer Is The Point.

Joyce.

I am characterized by fantastic imagery and incongruous juxtapositions.
A constantly changing scene composed of numerous elements.
Bizarre; Fantastic; Grotesque.
In my threshold of consciousness,
when I come upon my visions of half-sleep,
voices yell, and voices whisper,
they speak my name again and again.

Their disturbance is not invited,
and their presence is feared.

They may be benevolent or malicious.
Of the malicious type?
I can feel the tension as they stare
with intent that force silence and cowardliness.

It's happened to me,
it'll happen to you.
info
There’s a word I can’t remember,and this fucking feeling I can’t escape.My ash tray is over flowing,I’m still staring at this fucking clean white page.Morning is at my window,she’s sending me back to bed again.

There’s a word I can’t remember,
and this fucking feeling I can’t escape.
My ash tray is over flowing,
I’m still staring at this fucking clean white page.
Morning is at my window,
she’s sending me back to bed again.