I am burdened with,
And consumed by,
Visual poetry.
When the surface is scratched,
Or even just lightly bruised,
My eyelids are stretched,
Far beyond their natural capacity,
In wonderment,
At the terrifying beauty,
That exists,
In the minutia,
Of the achingly ordinary.

I am stretched out,
Afloat,
Atop a vast ocean,
Of inputs and emotions.

I know,
When the surface tension breaks,
I will surely drown.

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The impending sense of dread,
Scurries back into my mind,
​
Whilst I attempt to distract myself,
Pretending to unwind.

When all I’m doing really,
Is finding ways to procrastinate.

To distract oneself from oneself,
It’s fantastically obstinate.

When I was in Australia,

I saw a Mulga tree,

It was very unassuming,
​
and failed to impress me.


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I’ve felt like I was in a bubble,

For the last coupple of days,

My mind has turned to flinders,

Starting to show its age.


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It’ vitally important,

That you remember all this stuff,

I hate to be importunate,

But I just can’t stress it enough.

I’m enjoying being twenty,

And don’t want to wish away my youth,

But I look Forward to being wizened,
​
And no longer so uncouth.


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