Ignore the painful attempts to reattain an assembly of ego after years without writing my poetry in my synesthetic dew.
It's easy to rhyme. It's another thing in me though. That follows through the waters of ghosts and finds itself trembling at the precipice of dreams. I don't know what that is. But I can hear it calling me in my sleep. I know it sounds like bullshit, but it's not. It's asking me to wake up, even from my most sound dreams. It is then I know that only in my own coat can I exit the door and feel sunlight as if it were actually an interaction of dehydrocholesterol in the waking hour of my ability to express myself feeling vaccumed from me in some sort of psychological poetic tyranny. If I could stop rhyming that'd be lovely.
No comments:
Post a Comment