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i am not a poet,

nor am i a poem.

i am not a writer,

nor a book.

i am not a painter,

nor a painting.

i am not a sculptor,

nor a sculpture,

i  am not the artist,

nor the muse.

i am an idea,

that exists

only

in your imagination
I wrote this on a total whim, I quite like it.
the saddest part of dying
is what you forgot to do
the ideas born in lucid dreams
that vanished in the hue
the mountains never seen
the oceans never crossed
the poems written on scraps of paper
a lover's smile now lost
the tears you held inside
the chances never taken
the landscape of your life
an oasis now forsaken
My ear
to the asphalt
My nose
in the wind

My mind
on tomorrow
Escaping
my sins

The road bends
before me
It twists
and it turns

Where truth
waits forbidden
And love stays
unearned

The voices
grow faint
In this gale
to escape

In front
and behind me
Both early
and late

As the mountain
implores me
Still calling
my name

With fate
at its limit
And death
— here to claim

(Dreamsleep: April, 2025)
Just like that, outta the blue
I realize that no matter what I do
There'll never ever be another you
And it hurts like hell...
Btw, how great is Chet Baker??
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