Oil under my nails, french press on my tongue. This is the antithesis of normalcy. Sing songs, whilst in little white dresses, about a love revival. I'll over punctuate to get my point across. I'm sure I had one - a point I mean, of course.
I shouldn't like to distract from that which is meant to be important. But I can't seem to make my vocal chords cease from vibrating. My shoes weren't meant to be walked long in, so I may ask to borrow a pair. It will be good for me, you know, to walk awhile in yours. It's really beneficial for everyone involved, unless you have the gout.
All my shots are up to date. You simply have to load them, aim, and fire. At what, I can't be quite sure. I am not sure of anything much these days. No, I'm not wearing a belt, but even if I were I'm not sure there would be anything under it. Empty space is always good to have an excess of.
I feel flat. Abandoned soda bottle in the cup holder flat. Afraid to blink because I might miss something that matters. I'm finally standing still and I remember why I don't appreciate the feeling. It's cold and stagnant. Flat soda.
There is a very serious possibility that I've already missed what I'm waiting for. I don't like it here, it's terribly crowded. I want to be invisible. In a large open room where the walls are covered in memories. Flat on the floor, I can focus when I'm creating. It's the only time I seem to be able to muster up patience.
I can pour my heart onto canvas. Bleeding ink onto the page, smearing paint into the mix. Have you ever considered maybe the path your on isn't your own? That maybe you weren't meant for any kind of path that the feet can follow.
Raw milk and honey will fix any problem you might think you have. Snow will cover any imperfection you imagine is there. Ducttape will hold anything together again. But what will hide you from yourself? I've fallen down the rabbit hole and the only way back is painful self discovery. The strange psychological kind where you break mirrors to get away from yourself.
There's too much truth on the ground. I want to pick it all up and give it back to those people it has effected. Pity is altogther poisonous. This place is not where I live. This world is not what I was meant for, I cannot see how it plays a part. I'm exhausted and I can't seem to find my way out of the covers.
I shut my eyes tightly and when I do, I can see stars, galaxies, universes. The world is covered in white black and green, the only colors I really see when I'm dreaming. I'm spinning in circles and catching falling stars on my tongue. It's snowing stars and I'm not cold.
The garden is made up of teacup flowers and evaporating butterflies. This is my imagination and anything goes. The grass is made of sand and there are no shoes here. Instead of flying kites, we attach the wings to one another and take turns in the sky.
Nothing is flat here. Each tree plays whatever instrument is closest to it's heart, a constant orchestra on the wind with the birds creating a chorus. Sometimes things go dark and we fight back the clouds with bottled sunlight. Other times there is injustice, unkindness, mistreatment and we battle that with stronger things. Utopia does not exist for the sake of itself but by the courage of the people.
And as I dream of bigger and greater things, they become more real to me than anything waking. I prefer a world where life is of value and light is of worth. I believe in its possibility. Complicated simplicity. I believe.
If nothing is true, what more can I do? I am still painting flowers for you...
I feel flat. Abandoned soda bottle in the cup holder flat. Afraid to blink because I might miss something that matters. I'm finally standing still and I remember why I don't appreciate the feeling. It's cold and stagnant. Flat soda.
There is a very serious possibility that I've already missed what I'm waiting for. I don't like it here, it's terribly crowded. I want to be invisible. In a large open room where the walls are covered in memories. Flat on the floor, I can focus when I'm creating. It's the only time I seem to be able to muster up patience.
I can pour my heart onto canvas. Bleeding ink onto the page, smearing paint into the mix. Have you ever considered maybe the path your on isn't your own? That maybe you weren't meant for any kind of path that the feet can follow.
Raw milk and honey will fix any problem you might think you have. Snow will cover any imperfection you imagine is there. Ducttape will hold anything together again. But what will hide you from yourself? I've fallen down the rabbit hole and the only way back is painful self discovery. The strange psychological kind where you break mirrors to get away from yourself.
There's too much truth on the ground. I want to pick it all up and give it back to those people it has effected. Pity is altogther poisonous. This place is not where I live. This world is not what I was meant for, I cannot see how it plays a part. I'm exhausted and I can't seem to find my way out of the covers.
I shut my eyes tightly and when I do, I can see stars, galaxies, universes. The world is covered in white black and green, the only colors I really see when I'm dreaming. I'm spinning in circles and catching falling stars on my tongue. It's snowing stars and I'm not cold.
The garden is made up of teacup flowers and evaporating butterflies. This is my imagination and anything goes. The grass is made of sand and there are no shoes here. Instead of flying kites, we attach the wings to one another and take turns in the sky.
Nothing is flat here. Each tree plays whatever instrument is closest to it's heart, a constant orchestra on the wind with the birds creating a chorus. Sometimes things go dark and we fight back the clouds with bottled sunlight. Other times there is injustice, unkindness, mistreatment and we battle that with stronger things. Utopia does not exist for the sake of itself but by the courage of the people.
And as I dream of bigger and greater things, they become more real to me than anything waking. I prefer a world where life is of value and light is of worth. I believe in its possibility. Complicated simplicity. I believe.
If nothing is true, what more can I do? I am still painting flowers for you...
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