I was wrong, I see.
My water mixes poorly
With the flame of you.

You
Precious little thing,
You'll die, stuck here
In this honey.

Oh,
Poor little thing.
You won't even
See it coming.





In your abandoned colony,
Your echo will mark tracks
Of these empty promises
You can never take back.

Fearsome monument.
Terrorism, you call out.
Yet, terror, you spread.

All I have to do is as important as a cat's to-do list, very remiss with every scratching of a check.

Where are all my hands, for they are not all on deck?

All I ever breathe in this post-dream reality is as a wish upon a star, unbelievably close and undoubtedly far.

I mean this most sincerely when I say it all has meaning, as our world is run by the remains of dinosaurs who got stuck in tar.

Have you ever thought ' what is this I put in my car? '

I try to hold on to a figment of imagination, as it flakes away like paint on absorbent severed trees.

It brings me to my knees when I admit I haven't hit the bottom yet, for all I feel is the certainty of sinking.

Chasing a fading note, the volume swells and a bad grounding wire is evident as the buzzing grows until the next track hits and I'm left alone in this
mirage of some meaningful nonsense I let

sweep me far away. What a game to play, tip toeing in a giant's nest!

I forgot what I set out to say, forgot the melody, forgot the meaning and yet I still hear birds chirping.

This heart
whistles
the song
of those
who
turned
their
back
on culture.

Chained down by blood,
the
hellish
beasts
of
conformity
circle,
waiting
for a note
they can
understand
and
really
sink their teeth into.

I pull these flowers far too late and out of season.
My pockets fill with the premature and the dead.
I kick these rocks I used to never notice.
I put them in my pocket, in the back of my head.

Thanks to your butterfinger slip, we have so much to look forward to.
The happiest little accident in human history; Bob Ross is surely proud.