Again something squeezes my chest, my hands tight they can not write what they feel. It is this anxiety in the word, spit on impulse. That loneliness is accompanied by out of sight. The dreams that seem so distant, never-ending needs of need, but reinvented in the midst of deprivation. Deficiency in world overflowing, dripping with artificial feelings. A world that does not understand not wanting to sit and think, which is always such a rush to experience everything and have fun. And while I'm here, trying to stand on one side of life, while other bodies are pulling me to continue treading the path I try to leave behind. I'm here trying to get my flight does not lose its soul, my feet still want to run for what we always wanted. I was not falling arms, tired of trying. That my pen will again force my heart to stop discoloration.
(I wake up with a call and, with one eye open and one closed, I say the most beautiful things I've ever heard)
