Inspiration comes in waves and it dialates.
It smooths my edges and sometimes taints my creativity.
It is in the form of circles, shapes. And leaves. But I cannot leave.
Incredible, magical things. And they are taking shape before me, but sometimes. Numb.
I can be so incredibly tangible. I can be so far away.
I adhere, I hew. I stick so diligently to what once was. I can feel myself pulling away, like velcro. Each little stem detatching. Peeling.
And it all, normality. Cut through my breaths like a veloce human knife. And emotions, cut deep. When I am bored with reading, I follow my green eyes down beneath the earth. I open my heavy lids, and they bleed. Crumbles of soil. My nose runs out, I cannot cry.
This. It is clean. And it comes in waves. And now I am floating. And it’s an ocean. A faithless pool, azure. It is not very optimal, goggles fog. As glasses, in winter. A slow hazy color that bursts from the sides. I am dialated. And so are you, bloated with intention. I spent time here. A mild time of confusion and lust. Ringing, ears. Ringing, mind. I’ve you, in mind.
And I can’t stop the sounds. But they keep me grounded.
The waves, they are important. They knock me under because,
there are things I should see.