I write. I’m making peace with my own words these days. We had a fight not long ago. I was angry and disappointed, and said things I shouldn’t have said to them.
Up the wide wooden stars, underneath the acrylic stairs, I crawl down to the underworld. Shapes of epitomized perfection build for my comprehension. I shall never long for anything again. I gasp for air; I paint with my fingers and create a master piece of delight. I belong as I’ve never been gone, and I find as it all I possess.
The weary days are over, as the time streams between amusement and fascination. I need to know it all, while my words are shut, and my skin leads my mind.
The amber walls are dim from nighttime and dark room honey sweet dreams ahead.
I’m high as a kite, and my lips are blood filled and torn apart. I’ll dust your bones, I’ll be gentle, and I’ll treasure them and keep them with mine.
The alphabet is in vowels I’ve never written before. Pale-blue steel and rags from our creation, and twin boughs of immoral precedence make a frame I’ve cherished.
Neverland indeed, keep loosing away sanity. Figure myself since I could never. Tell me where and when and I’ll follow through.
I can’t read your mind. There are tides in my head. I’m a mirror and a nothing.
Fractals I brought from the swamp in the land of metal, architecture composing of incongruence I should have never forced anyone to.
Flooding the rooms of my head with words in perfect semantic and unquestionable pronunciation, I tore away my adolescent self. I can make a sense, there it all will rest.
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