~We're moving
mass...and the
walls are getting
whiter.
Take care not
to trip over anything
in the way...the
walls are getting
whiter.
Room to breathe is
never squared~

I sit at my laptop,
A strange sense of purpose,
As my fingers hit the keys,
And for once I feel as if I could write of simple things,
Smiling things:

The music in my ears,
Sending me into dance,
Singing along to words I hardly known,
Written for someone else but still mine in this moment,
And without fear I let the sound rock my whole body,
Filling my lungs so deep they burst.

The flowers in the field,
Some child in the sky flicking a paint brush of bright yellow,
Sending shining drops across the green.
How the wind ripples through them,
A wave of some forgotten tide that loved the land too much.

The stories in my head,
Faces I don't recognise but will love before long,
Places I've never seen but feel like home,
Air I can't breathe that keeps me alive,
Universes flowing like rivers from my mind.

Drops drum against my window,
And trickle onto the page,
They long for my attention,
For me to put grey skies,
Fine mist and moody tears,
Into yet another poem.

But who am I to argue?
The gods are drumming on my window,
They're asking me to notice,
And I have,
So I must,
As down the valley summer flowers,
Are battered by the sky,
Force-fed vital water,
In bursts and steady onslaughts,
Until the ground can take no more,
And the Earth cries out:
*Stop

Writing over,
The words I last thought
Meant something.

They blur beneath these,
Punctuation in. the wrong places
That. I couldn't quite erase.

My new idea is unclear,
Messy, chaotic,
It will not merge with what I thought,
Meant something.

Will this mean anything?
Or will these words do no more
Than mess up the next lot?

My mind won't.
Hold.
A thought for.
Than a second.

I can't keep.
Eyes focused on.
I need to.
To work it out.

How can I.
Try to think.
Nothing seems to.
Sense it just.
Fit together anymore.