If I wrote a symphony, who would hear me?
If I wrote a book, would you take a look?
I don’t understand the constant novel of out lives,
the narration of our thoughts.
I don’t understand how you see life or how you see me.
The poetic discord that is our thoughts, the cymbals of our lives crashing together
do people think the way
I do? Surely, but who?

The fascination that comes
Could it ever be undone?
I’m confused on how I breathe, just being me,
I can’t escape the constant beating of my mind
my heart would skip a beat
if my pen did not teach me how to breathe.

And I’d like very much to..
Go through life as a paintbrush,
sending color to the darkness and the light,
to make a beautiful mess of this place.
To paint closed eyes open to a world that I can see,
to bring this vision out from inside of me.

But I don’t
Want to scare you with how I think
The monster consumes the air I breathe is ink.
Exhaling words on to paper that surrounds me
the chaos that controls my hands and lifts my feet
and takes me on a ride,
never far enough away from this constant I create.
This wonderland of absence to the fake.
My dreams make more sense when I’m sleeping
it gets hard to tell when I’m awake, even then I can’t help but shake. Trembling monster inside me, can’t hide me.
I’m lost. But I’d rather not find me.
Out loud

I’ll write it all down,
trying to match the rhythm of my hand to the pulsating thoughts in my brain.
Does anyone feel this way?
I’d like to show you…
I’m bleeding. Dripping. Painting a scene.
Oh, I’m painting a scene.
Its SO LOUD I wish it would SHUTUP
Shutup and let me breathe, I am painting, painting a scene.

Step into my eyes, I dare you.