Ink and sounds.
I will not narrate my sadness for the sake of understanding. I am ashamed, for this burden is mine. This heavy heart weighing me down keeps my chin to my chest and south of the sky. Forget that pain and go astray from the everyday. My symptoms move at a feverish pace, only to deny me of my place in this place of ashes and days gone by. Thats the way that it falls on me. Seize that second for me again. Braces and hopes graces all set in a series of phases. My nose bleeds with every bit of pressure surrounding and measured in square inches. Celebrate the hopeless seen by park benches with dreams interrupted and broken by finches. But not drowning out the sounds of the hurtful crashing. Crashing that is like that of accidentally dropped cymbals, yet seeming to me to be filled with the intent to crash and keep crashing until the clouds fall out of the sky to rain on the hopeless along with I and the birds.
Maybe I died in a storm that day, or the cleansing of me broken once the rains ceased. I regret to inform that I have been lost in a smattering loss. Rewind that clock. Bring it back and embrace the solitude and shut my mouth and be healed by the sounds and by the ink with the sounds. So compelling yet unsustaining. My chance is now. Break free. Break free and rescue the heart the hope the ink and the sounds.
Created: Oct 30, 2010Ramble and Wake Document Media