"I don’t get it", it’s not a poetic phrase, and certainly not any insight to my abstract mind. It doesn’t represent any of the words I was trying to lay on the page, but is a perfect insight of how all of those words ended with dark scribblings marked over any of the slightest potential. It’s made up of uncertainty and weariness, but does not run strict to the grain. Its the result of biting my tongue a hundred times, while letting the river of your voice drown out every last inch of drought in the desert of my mind. But I should know that new foliage can never grow when nourished with polluted water.