I often find myself wondering,
wondering why there's a part of me that wishes to pen everything down.
When the moment siezes me and emotions reach a crescendo,
my mind fills up with words that swing round and round.
Like a fucked up yet unadulterated piece of art by a child, with pieces of paper glued here and there,
my words are jotted down and aligned, and the constellations seem to make no sense.
For where will the winds fly them to or are they just a little too heavy to hold?
Would one ever discover an X marked on a hidden map that seldom unfolds?
I often find myself wondering how being normal would feel like,
without having an eye or an ear that strays.
Wherever they rest, whatever is absorbed,
it all is muse for the damn insane.
If someday I bleed,
My blood would be blue in colour. Within me the poetry of the world flows, through me the stories are retold.
