As I sit here and wonder,
Through an endless ponder,
I question each little itch.
Yet before I know it,
This grave that I sit in,
Is an itch: a dwelling of itches.
How to get out…
To rid these itches,
I must remove their stitches,
With the use of my pointer and thumb.
As time passes by,
Still I can’t see the sky,
Now stuck by a mountain of stitches.
There is a little lad inside my head.
He sits in his arm-chair critiquing with lead.
Posting pages of notes upon my walls,
Of moments where I wish I saw:
The way she looks and stares with grace,
A broken down car and the man who waved,
The bluejay who perched upon the sill,
And moments that I could never fill- again.
With a marvelous triumph I give him praise,
For the things I have learned, improving future days.
If it were not for the little lad inside my head.
I would be cold and empty and without a worthy head.
There is a final moment where you can look him in the eyes.
So vividly, you swore that your flag has been disregarded.
Ripped by the seams, falling in fitting yet frivolous pieces.
You can imagine them as a whole.
The master proof plan you dreamed of.
The point where it all made since.
But to him, it is a conquer of what you will never see.
That moment you lock eyes and finally accept
Your dream as the fitting appetite upon his eyes.
Realizing the final way to see your dream come true,
Begins the last moment his eyes close as it swallows them whole.
You then shake hands, and part ways on the battle field.
I get scared easily.
And I always have persisted to allow my mind to be torn out when I let it affect me.
They say, "Worst case scenario is rare." in most situations.
I have yet to seek why they ignore worst case, become it, leaving nothing left for the worst.
Habitually it creates an aggression with associates: replacement and correlation.
Without me noticing inevitably.
This shadow that follows, desires its personification;
Consequently the main man must fall,
He will dissipate towards the rock where the one before him stood.
Rather take a spot of one greater, it is that of less higher.
A demotion of sort.
In order for it to transpose into progression, a compromise is of order.
The compromise of time, itself, playing the waiting game - (let us back step)
The understanding of this is of which I no longer feel that emotion;
It is configured by the other, making a statement which is unrecognizable.
So much, not even I, the speaker, can do anything to prove to you what I mean.
--For keeps sake--
This is no where near a poor pardon for my actions.
They are far from a credible stature. Far from a pity fete;
Indeed a fare apology is in par.
Yet this is a means of report to say in far value: worry.
It is of pure arrogance that I state this claim. Keep this in mind.
That I fear the replacement emotion shall take place in fair time once more.
As the tail is coming back again, second time to be specific.
And your steps in self-fulfillment climaxes,
The steps to which I take are mimicked to that of the first tail.
(The apex forms and your entitlement proclaims its spot.)
I wish it not, to be furthered in my rut.
As of the annum before, was explained by dis-valued ties.
This is not to which I think.
It is your confidence which speaks and separates your feet.
Placing one foot in one path, far ahead from the other.
As I stay with the other, while the other one is altered.
Being free as it walks along with out I.
I wish for an ignoring of replacement, and to this I will forcibly try.
For you, my love.