Of all the things I’ve internalized been put to paper by pen, how many you’ve read are understood? Can you appreciate the struggles I go through in my own fucked up ways? These words I pull from air have been arranged ever so properly to convey my meanings. Who do you know talks or dares to record such thoughts as that?
My thoughts are not of a young being, hell bent on proving themselves to others. They come from deep inside my ancient cave of hiding. Don’t want to overwhelm you, only release small doses as to keep you wanting more. How I wish you could fully understand everything that I do have thoughts about.
Get lost for hours in the music. My pen it does move my hand to write, the feelings swell to crash inside until written. All a pending storm living inside the when of landfall, though never of if. It’s bound to happen with the only question being that of where and what force it does come with slamming.
Won’t waste my time on frivolous artificial bullshit. You can keep it for that shell they call a mature man. Games that useless I’ve no time for, so keep them from my door. How I’d much rather fill my time with provoking conversation with helpful doses of mindfuckery. Try to follow along if you dare, just don’t complain if you can’t understand.