you may not feel the world
so uncaring
if you place yourself in it
moment to moment
caring
#katyamills
you may not feel the world
so uncaring
if you place yourself in it
moment to moment
caring
#katyamills
when i meditate on those i knew who went down hard and whom, after all the shock had been absorbed, by anyone who meant anything to them, ascended to the heights of recollection, i am filled with great sadness, giving a damn, decidedly, when i got no damns to give. #katyamills
it’s not a crime to care and it’s
not a crime not
to care it’s not a crime
not to care it’s a
crime
#katyamills
i got keyed up
tearful unable to speak
reflecting what you told me
had happened
they called me overinvolved they
said i lost perspective
they wanted to pull the case
out from under me. i
fought back 2 show it only
makes me work harder
to help
#katyamills
one moment you feel little, then large, and in between. some hang on to your every word, while others wouldn’t know you exist. you care about something, you care some more, then the world becomes full with meaning and you couldn’t care more. you could care less.
the great force i sometimes seek to embellish or highlight my mundanity, is located in the heart of the stillness of the chaos. somehow every day i manage to pick myself up (and coffee helps) and put my old self together and step out into the responsibility i feel to live a full if not helpful life in the chaos of old earth. i have a little ocd compulsion while driving the midtown streets whereby i check back to a purple inked textbook i rely on professionally, which sits in the center of the backseat catching light beneath the canopy, my only passenger, and bring my eyes back to the curve of the chipped windshield and my path before me, and i will reach an arm back and press the heel of my hand against the glossy finish, too. i don’t know why i do this but it grounds me. life is fucked up. we ought to be good to ourselves, be caring.
we give our all
to thank her
for the ocean
lackluster commentary
washes up on the shore
the droppings
of opinion
hit and run
hit and run
the crime scene
is permanent
she spreads us
lost and luster
thin sometimes
in a minute hand’s
wide circling
lenient spin
sometimes
we do it
to ourselves
the hours
artfully wasted
the body
hardly moves
text necking in our photo
editing booths
manipulating
the age off our faces
pixel worship
while life gets scarier
out there
help me
i have forgotten
what’s real
i don’t wanna regret
all this screen time
like some washed up
porn star
even that
must be real
god let me fall back
laughing in your arms
at a bar
at a laundromat
smoking reds
caring