So many questions in my head,
feel like I'm dangling from a thread.
Shadows fall all around
this new starry-eyed light I've found.

The world's warm.
The timings right.
Who's to say your smile's not what I'll need on these cold, cold nights?

I want this eternal Summer,
where we can stay longer,
And everything I need to hear,
Has already been said.

But I need the words,
To hear the sounds,
that will assure me to these feelings found.

I am not a writer.
I am not good with words,
I cannot speak up for myself,
It is my pen that bleed words.
No amount of convincing can give me conviction.
No amount of clarification can make that distinction.
Please refrain from using titles.

I am not a writer.
I am just a dreamer,
Dreaming dreams of inverted galaxies
Where complexities are reduced to simplicity,
And maybe love wouldn't be so complicated.
I dream of a world where I'll be unchained and liberated,
Because currently freedom is hard to go by.

I am not a writer.
I am just another over thinker,
I stay up all night disassembling the world,
So I can put it back together.
Adding new features that I think will make it better
I get lost in thoughts, and day-mares, fantasies and others,
I obsess and I always suffer.

I am not a writer.
Though sometimes I am photographer,
Snapping,
Close ups and selfies of my terrible mind.
Giving glints of places you won't usually find,
All because I write sometimes.

A flash. A crack.
Then the skies opened.
The ground swelled
With similies and metaphors;
Punctuation pooled into puddles
Of alliteration,
Forming rivulets of comparison,
Making streams of consciousness
For any to dip a toe, wade, swim, submerge.
Cascading rivers of figures
Of speech
Will evaporate
Wordy clouds
To wash over us again,
And soak us in blue verse.