sketchbooks are supposed to be for sketching,
but sometimes my thoughts come out in words or color.the shapes in my mind don't form worldly things and my brain can't comprehend itself.I am a dormant volcano full of anxiety and too much love for this world.I find comfort in the nothing that consumes me, for that it all I am.Dust, an insignificant particle in the eyelashes of society,I still pity myself and hope I disturb a tear just for my sorry existence, but it dries up in the barren desert of lies being fed to the masses.Sick of the monsters within. It's 1AM now and I’m the only one with a conscious thought of blood staining my veins with life. Oxygenated life.Held by the elements that we hold inside of us.I yearn for the release of sleep that will slingshot me around the sun again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again, until the earth's pulse flatlines, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again, until we are destroyed by creation, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again, life to death, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again, until death yields to creation, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again until it all stops….
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