True Sense of It

We are what we dream to be.

Where’s my pen? I cannot bend because my back is broken. Flying amongst the forgotten in a naked disclaimer. I sought to find the answer of questions that waver. I wanted to write something good – something average – something everyone could see but didn’t really see. And then it hit me, all I was doing was sitting on my arse  and dreaming.

I was looking forward and backward, matching past with destiny. I was trying to make sense of the different routes of monotony. Get up – guard – sleep. Guard what was yours – make it known, this is what I’ve written and its all that I own. I bursh my teeth and never see them white, I begin to wonder why even try.

If I can’t fix my brushing, why try and fix words – words that have been complied and spitted, arranged and gnawed by so many authors. When what I do is just the burp of another martyr. I’m leaving my actions to be chewed and scutinized by someone else who’ll sell it on eBay or probably improvise. It is evolution, the inevitable way they say. How am I to escape this, how am I supposed to keep my insecurities at bay?

Cause baby, they eat me and leave me feeling used. Deviod of art. After all how can you show the world a rusty hollowed soul. Who would want to hear the creaks and squeals… The shrieks and banters? And how can you let your ghosts escape and line up to possess a being innocent like them.

For they, all they want is a holiday home

They need an escape, not a short cut to dementia. Don’t load your dirty masks onto their faces, it will only hurt ya. Instead give them something they can hold or stem. Give them wings made of your disfigured feather hem. Give them something to think about, not someone. Give them an idea, not a character.

Everybody has everything.

Even the largest spec of the universe lies in us.

We are therefore everything we want to be with even being it.

And therefore we are nothing in the true sense of it

-Vee

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