Busy, much to busy.
To even have time to write, to think.
"Work, more work."
Never ending work.
I can't even find the time to remember what I was working on,
or to remember what I was trying to remember.
But still, I find time in the day.
Time to write on the walls,
connect dots,
Daw constellations that present shapes of things I cannot be,
things I cannot see.
And yet still,
I'm much to busy to think, much to busy to breath.
It's like I'm caught in a lucid dream,
yet I'm awake.
And although these constellations may pose a problem,
to my mental health,
they represent something greater, larger.
I bigger part of me,
that I may finally get to see.