The white ghost pursues you in the night, up the stairs you go into oblivion. In the hole you’re fearful to turn your back to the past. The shape of that moment, adherent to the walk down the steps of treasonous blindfolds. They chased you among the stars, within the pillars of magical trips. Your eyes blend in with the sea’s, they were five windfields and bright trees waving their hands up. The road passed through you, couldn’t see it as the planned paper airplanes settled. You were tricked by that presence, hadn’t seen it for more than forty seconds in view. The city streets were blurred, dancing in the sweet melody of blank canvases.
Watch the leaves fall, in effervescent melody and spears of magnificence. My mouth fills up with prideful wallows, flashy in brimstone and red mixture promises. You were blessed, without fault and canned with thoughts of downturned blazing. It was boastful, inside the skin and bones crawls the words from which you came from. The true face of fear, stares into your sheared and blessed imagination. Hands connecting to the ladder, crawling upward unbounded as the split became clear. Those personal boils, cinched a cold and callous majesty. The go between slitted the barrier, the crack in the ceiling as the light would show through. Why would you pass the torch now, to these final breaths featuring and windfilled lectures.
If that tiny spark of light were to go out, where would you go to find a bigger one. The clocks in your storehouse clicked, but the hands were missing. You were made by that candle spigot, flowed through the room in cohesion and carefully placed circumference. That letter moved into your mind, as the pain missed your face as pale as stone. It wailed away screaming out into the night wind. The road was found in the past, tressed into loops on the carpet. Your feet wrinkled up, folded down with a wand sparking that encampment. If that fire were to burn so far, would you find a way out of the hole. The wall hadn’t broken out yet, you came forward with the spike in your hand. It sizzled and stirred in furiosity, those maggots skurry for a way out the door. Stay awoken he said, he blessed you with he machine that would cleanse you of all wrongs.
Writing is like a staple, it fiercely penetrates the skin. You never understand why its there, until its out on the page. But its something you did to yourself, it had to be brought out because you couldn’t do anything more if it hadn’t. There’s no goal, there’s reason no reason for any of it honestly. It’s like shaving your head, getting rid of all the little strands of hair is difficult but you feel free when its done. A potential gun to the head, as it presses against your temple. It waits for you to act, but has an idea that you would choose the other way. You have to hurt yourself, to find the peak. The sky point, just right before the falling. I guess its the most dangerous thing you can do. Because its the most vulnerable you are, there’s nothing like putting some on paper.
The floor wrapped about my bones, flickering on and off in a measuring brookstone. Clashing together, the rocks hit my mind peering into that overcrowded abyss. I felt numb, apart from myself in the memoriam of making a difference. Followed by a neutral conspiratorial energy, ascending towards the brief peak of enjoyment. That complete impasse, folded out in the brood of self worthiness. I’m breaking the fall, focused on change but never the moment. An impervious and final blow, brought to the surface of a beast who encouraged careless words. You built a wall entranced in fake matter, it was braced and on a spindle top. I found in the hampering, among the stars and winding roads. Muddled about the dark room, pressurized blanks as you made it out to be.
In your head space, it feels sometimes like there’s a mountain atop your skull. Pressing against your brain, as if it could weigh down just enough to cut off any sort of bodily function to your other extremities. Its at these moments, I feel the most constricted within my own head space, as if a blood vessel pounds away. Like a headache that has no path of loosening, the tight grip on your throat. Your breaths are slow, everything is very skill the movements of things at the corner of your eye trick you. It’s interesting enough, to see if you can follow them. This isn’t always good, if you are trying to focus on getting something finished. Its your eyes possibly peering into another’s existence, but I guess the means for communication doesn’t exist within this realm? I guess its a metaphor, for wanting to reach out but you can’t. Is it real, or just a figment of your imagination?
A blotched out imagination, it hides just behind your words that were unspoken. A truth never made known, can you feel it pulsing into your eye holes. Feathered out storms, your mouth hadn’t lost the words. They were yellow with traitorous fixtures, unfathomable they bled from your porcelain shrine work. Like a child’s play, incursions aplenty and blamed for that tragic endway. You pushed against the wind, it chimed with the noise in your ear as it buzzed repeatedly choking your tones. The stairs were red, they couldn’t be seen for they were invisible. Helmets with a hundred head’s, addressed with encapsulation, buried in the sand without a hand to hold you.