Tomorrow’s eyes watch me —
but _I am blind_ until it arrives.
To cease to exist feels like a ceasefire
in time, where I burn away inspiration
on the fumes of an energy drink.
Notebook scribbles doing their best
to _unknot all my thoughts_ —
tangled passions poured out in pen.
This art… it’s love in its messiest form.
Beneath every star, there’s a space
between us — these stained brown eyes
aching for more time, more ink, more breath
to write out the seconds before they disappear.
The pen, a formless weapon — shaping
silence into meaning, turning pressure into
prayer, forming _words to be_.
Jul 10, 2025
Jul 10, 2025 at 8:00 AM UTC
Tomorrow’s eyes watch me —
but _I am blind_ until it arrives.
To cease to exist feels like a ceasefire
in time, where I burn away inspiration
on the fumes of an energy drink.
Notebook scribbles doing their best
to _unknot all my thoughts_ —
tangled passions poured out in pen.
This art… it’s love in its messiest form.
Beneath every star, there’s a space
between us — these stained brown eyes
aching for more time, more ink, more breath
to write out the seconds before they disappear.
The pen, a formless weapon — shaping
silence into meaning, turning pressure into
prayer, forming _words to be_.
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