i want to grow like trees and shrubs,
with my soft lids still on,
pages rustle my thick blood often,
a sound to hum
i want to take everything in at once,
moisture, dry breeze slapping my jaws
everything like sleeping beauty.
thick sheets of frozen memories are bizzare,
i know it. i understand.
still i want to swallow and eat it raw,
this moon so bright,
this sun so dark,
it burns often.
The forest was never the surreal thing.
it was the precarious noise of falling leaves,
scars left behind in the woods.
uncluttered weight of brightness.
and i grew like a moth amidst this silence.
with words cluttered.
pale moonlight rumbling the laws of detachment.
i have sniffed loneliness like no one ever did
i am the writer, the melancholy soul aches a pain.
a pain artistic like dust on my desk.
cob webs mind game. Pleasure in pain.