I am but a rose Or a dandelion Or a tree. Or a ****, perhaps. Or a brain that thinks.
I’m a river or a tree It could be you, it could be me. Don’t think, don’t speak, Just feel, I tell myself.
So I’m the wind and some other crazy poetic metaphor or simile.
My mind is full of abstract words and tunnels-slash- flowings things that can’t make sense-slash- all the things a mind will spin in a fragile casing-slash- a destruction of words that cannot be prohibited-slash- So I don’t want to think.
Yeah, I’ll go with that.
But pardon my lack of busta rhymes and feelin’ the rhythm. Apathy is a gravity my mouth has learned to find. A slow crawling, rhythm stalling, asphexiating breath. Thus my words have been forestalled.