I imagine the way I feel has been felt by countless souls before mine, in the broader sense. However no one is made up just the same way, leading me to conclude the way I feel is in fact, unique. My pain is mine, the itches from soul to skin I own. Each generation of soul harmonise together in an excruciating explosion. I am crushed yet I'm whole.
Why do I ache for something never once mine? The years and days tick by they say time heals all but if this is true why do I turn and turn back like pages in the wind.
I am the hull of a ship and the wind, waves and sails. One day I will feel deserving of being animate. Now I live as the red, pink and white of a flower.
I am made of the universe yet I am nothing more. I sit under rainfall and talk in fantasy until I fade to breeze.
It's peculiar but realistic, home, soul free. I drop slowly through the central leaf channel. I'm a mineral but I'm none. And I feel comfort despite that I swim in gold and orange and I loose tears to glow.
Lavender laced breath of those I cherish absorbed into my being, blood and water. You cannot see how my soul swims when I am landlocked and betrothed.
The way in which we speak will never be enough to explain my intentions of being, a mismatched vision of linguistic sounds portray internals eternally improved.
I talk of beads, glass, blue and I feel liberation I cannot get from lost lonely blue.
My body is salt, I wrap and roll amongst the spitting embers of its bust. I am engulfed and I feel more than a child.
They creepy crawly over my insides out and my leaves curl in comforting pleasure sinking to oblivion once more.
When will I breathe the air that was meant for me? For now I drift and swirl down the plughole for want of yellows.
