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The world

Grace Connolly

I don't really have a word to express the malady I'm feeling. From the
looks of it,
I'm reeling. Reeling nothing in, retching out my lungs. I'm so high
strung and burned out
Everything is small I want to shout and I cant please anyone.
Yoga is so small, my problems, my meals, and any and all conversation.
There is a certain participation factor required.

I don't find the need to be talking through another expired birthday.
Yet I continue.

There is a man who runs my yoga class-his meditations make me sad. He
talks about all of the lack.
Giving everyone flack as they walk out of the subway. Petitions 3
blocks above St. Marks. Hamburgers being consumed, 3 blocks above,
below, and on.

Postcards outside the john outside of the john in the really cheap
falafel place. This city is pretty much only postcards, each of them
could be pretty much the most successful match I'll ever meet.

Sick.

The yoga mat smells like feet. The only thing this hedonist is
dripping is some wine out of the glass. Sweat
All over the yoga mat. All over sheets. Words, all over the streets,
into the ears of no one I really care about.

I'm twenty three. I have no clout. I'm not on the page I was thought
to be assuming. I want to be mechanical. I want to be soft.

Zooming in, I'd like to be taking off. To Ethiopia , the beach, the
water on the sand...

The world is very much out of hand.



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