guts

the songs that you wrote

and as my scalp tingles

under the magic spells

cast upon many of us

i sense many smells

i sniff out the soft yellow

heart sobs of your soul

waiting for the hearts to break

black tar, lace, wind up toys

i suppose i am the only thing i may know about my future

You know when an idea is just so powerful that it makes you cry? I've been writing these little messages lately. They are almost like journal entries, but they don't feel like they belong in my diary.

Joanna Newsom makes me cry.