Feb 2013
What can come of a silence that permeates so deeply within my inspirations, that it is layered but twice of mine own hesitance.
How are my words to live, but never given in a desperation that enriches my will of wants, but is to be forgotten by mornings noise.
To fold my hands and look away, has become the very nature of my innate ability to walk away, chanting the names of those who wish me well.
The title has become a contrived precursor to lead astray the feelings without means to convey.
No one else but I.
No one else but I may know what flows beneath my flesh until it ceases to be recognizable to me, you, or by any sense of words that blur in the misshapen dragging that only you will see, only you may see what you want to see, and see it you will, but wrongly.
How are my words to live, but never given in a desperation that enriches my will of wants, but is to be forgotten by mornings noise.
To fold my hands and look away, has become the very nature of my innate ability to walk away, chanting the names of those who wish me well.
The title has become a contrived precursor to lead astray the feelings without means to convey.
No one else but I.
No one else but I may know what flows beneath my flesh until it ceases to be recognizable to me, you, or by any sense of words that blur in the misshapen dragging that only you will see, only you may see what you want to see, and see it you will, but wrongly.
