Has HP so many spinning wheels anymore?
I wait to heart a poem I like, comment, save a work, and I get,

A spinning wheel

Or a little sign:

Bad gateway. 505

Are we all dead?

The queen
gave her life
for the king.
Indeed,
love is about
sacrifice.

You can't make a flower bloom.
You can shine all you want
but it won't open
until it's ready.

It is a sickness.
Words pour from me
Truth and fantasy
Since a child.
I have a writing disorder.
People run for fear I'll share.

When in the fever, it spills from me
on napkins and paper bags.
It surrounds me.
It drowns me.

The disorder seizes me.
Words written in lost notebooks
long forgotten.
The writings disappear, but the sickness
never goes.

Uncontrollably, as green in May,
words spread over me.

a person with a mind and soul
made of colorful, vivid ribbons
quietly walks through the world.
she expects to feel the warmth
of their smiles on her face.
their eyes softly crinkle
when they're with each other.
when they walk toward her,
they grimace - every single time.
their voices fade until
she can only hear the sound
of her loud breathing,
feel the chill in the air,
and blink the tears away.

"I feel nothing"
she said
as she lied down
on the cold empty road
not knowing which direction to go

"what's it like"
I asked her
over the phone
while stuck in traffic
just trying to get to work