Lucky me I found a stone on the floor. Stepping over it and releasing my rusty grainy diluted flourescent feverish blueish fragrance. Cut off from everything, Toungue in cheek, louscious poppies, Sprouting from the wasteland. Limitless potential.
Grut as a placement. Forever chasing dreams, who i am it seems to fall apart, I lay awake wanting to remember but find myself looking for more ways to turn back then move forward. Steps find a way to ignite you.
So many names that mean nothing to you now and so many words that you called โpoetryโ or โpotential lyricsโ but no other human on Earth would. Re-read once, luxuriate in the cringe, be happy you once saw Television play the Blind Pig in โ93, then apply the cleansing flames.
