I stumble fast while writing this.
Backspace is the most used key, but somehow
I'm still making progress. I know, huh?
Time's ticking, I walked out on her,
not with my hand in her face,
but pointed towards greener pastures.
Marching forth like there was nothing I wanted
more. And the old 'grass is always greener'
comes to mind, as I float away from land,
once more.
I sit here swaying, lonely while writing this.
I say that, but there's two of us here,
and i'm tiring from the vicious continuing of
ying and yang in my head, a tide in motion.
This perpetual feeling of misbalance is
seriously fucking with me, I'd love to
turn to guidance but I fear it's futile.
A wind of hope rustles the awkward bit of
hair that I can never get right, and
my mind is turned to myself again.
Yippee.
I ache from writing this.
Saying is never doing, talk the talk...
Exactly. I wish there were things I could do.
My friend, a thousand miles away, I envy you.
Pictures say a thousand words, and yours,
just make it worse.
I'm left daily wondering, when do you become
too exhausted? I've been down there,
and swam right back out smiling -
but I'm concerned my float will dampen.
I'm a travelling ghost ship. Sleek and grand,
fuelled with no direction.
No tide nor bearing with me,
the navigator got out at the last stop.
I'm sailing into a wilderness of storms and
battered reefs.
Throwing myself at the rocks,
just to try and get my feet on solid ground.
And I stand on the deck, digested by the dark -
drowned, in the sound of crashing, mountainous waves;
singing no more than a childs whisper.
"This night?"
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