Earl gray green tea and black leaf memories. This hangs like the percentage of the constant rise of suicide, I'm just the one digesting caffeine. It all lingers as I refrain. Frozen still, timeless like a haze of veil covering the eyes. Nightmares live there, ones I don't present any negligence anymore. The ignorance says good riddance and so I reside on the battle field, screaming "deal... deal.". Although "don't stray child" is all I hear, with my head bowed without any street signs of fear. Lights of green, yellow and red traffic jam a reaction... out of the illusions of fathers, Out of the illusions of a mother. Those lights beat like flashbacks of more lights, but these were blue and red. Are they all illusions? what do they mean? It's still hanging. Hanging. Perceptions of victory mean high like the clouds I play in... but I can't seem to raise my flag where it will stay without a pinch of me falling in.
Coast said "Don't breathe the air", So I guess that's why I've compensated for this sort of inhale. In gray areas like clouds between sleet and snow. All colored smoke. The choice to ease the played out recollections to cope. Like the most profound nightmares constantly running in desperate hope, to suddenly continue to start falling, looking down like a telescope. Dreams are cunning, I guess that why I hit the road. To your surprise you cling to a rock and it all stops sevenfold. Whatever it takes to unchain the shackles, once you realize your alone and that's what matters. In the stories all honesty was in the Mad Hatter. Firm believer of 'ignorance is bliss' and the crazies are the ones truly free. If you don't see or understand we're born on a battlefield, at a young age we learn to never yield. Living wayward fast full of anxiety, shame, and worry.... Hopelessly seeking that rock to cling to that our cities, our hands have buried. Most of the time I feel left for dead, and in the same darkness I wonder if I could only forget. But these things are given like emotions, dreams, and air, who contaminates it is our consistent wrestle to bear arms, it's the struggle and To admit I don't want to live here. Which is said only out of defense frustrations endlessly reacting to the atmosphere, and doesn't aid the facts I'm like a puzzle hidden in Easter egg apparel. Surviving I'm sure is the biggest thing Man will ever know, humble enough to not let the gray chokehold, to do this successfully in richness of all moral. Now we're spawning roots unaware, attempting to keep true. Bread crumbs into a forest, lost like the oldest tales of real morbid. All we have is each other and I'm feeling more disconnected than ever, though trying to souter people united. Escape artist.
It's 4:39 and I'm in complete essence of now. I gazed forward, casually sweeping the floor. People with books, with little electric contaminators, whispers, eyes locked to newspapers full of false reads. The sun slowly proceeds to lay it's head and the sky darkens for it's absence. I have to stroll these 'weird' streets, sidewalks next to glistening priority machines, people on their phones everywhere like a virus and this beat of pulsating wires is nothing but a host. Everyone checking the time, checking their watches and pause to stare into nothing just waiting for Father Time to rule them. I guess that's what they believe without taking an inch of any sort of thought. An illusion of time. They're all under this rule and waste away so sad, this being their only friends, this being all their existence. Everything being lived inside this 'time', where's your life again? But, Oh who am I to say anything. I must get to the bus stop at 5:00.
I want to dance, frolic and prance. I suddenly look around and this human consciousness seeps inside. My actions stutter as I play out illusions that don't even exist, I seize. I stop this beautiful instinct, this ripe and ready being by refraining from just 'being'. How could I deceive myself? I could I sell myself short? I feel desperate in a box within myself, fighting against myself. Everything like an invisible script; based on people, based on weather, based on factors that naturally, literally mean nothing. I'm swarmed by pollution of my own judgments closing in on me. Aftermath of the whole thought and finally proceed due to 'what the hell', I act out awkward, I'm not secure and not certain... I guess because the knowledge is already there. Could it be I'm my own worst enemy?
Sketching, sketching. The humble artist tries so hard and now I will. Silence is where my new comfort lays, resonating hush coughs and sordid ladies chatting and chatting carelessly. Where I enrage at the every bit of second like my annoyance with babies crying. But I'm just a part of the rude people, I suppose. I sit with electric instruments just like a handful of others gathering at outlets for more free electrical advantages. The public. A free for all like a zebra grazing in the safari. We're just like the animals; Eating up our prey and when it's never enough-that last part, No... that's human. Just as human as what divides us as creations. Choice... free-will. Odd looks and curiouser glances but I never give anything back, I just wonder like they do.
Winter crept into my reality like a soothsayers words to another. My scattered motions of continuous rushes in my shivers residing by the bus stop. Lyrics rattle in my mind imploring "How do I address a letter to my generation?", This burns inside me like a flameless bush as much as I wish to hover over a fire and out of these winds. I just want to see us excel... excel so far past the stars and essence of this generic system and physicality of what we are. So we'd all join in light and sing, but precise songs written in the heart, breeding from the soul. About our loyalty, beauty, love, and every strangers stereotypical thought of what 'hippie-tree-huggers' believe. To be born again as what we're created to be, paths so clear on purpose. You see and that's why I can't ever address this as much as I die inside to eagerly share. This giant burden. I'm no Hero. I'm no Angel nor a Saint. They say 'first impressions are what matter most', I say it's your intention the reveals a legitimate chance of determining 'what matters most'.
Heritage. It rings and vibrates with the generalness of 'emotion'. Back to the roots of every last bit and beginning of perception. Possibly because this brown skin prejudicially would envision the closeness like a spider web of family. Lost in my wonder and sullen humanity 'why'. I kneel to this idea but I know it's not the truth even though it rips and tears, tugs at all existing 'emotions', harvesting pain. A circle only full of different angles of this agony. I can't run or flee. I know I'm not a one-eighty degree.