The smothered hands of manufacturers produce lays its wholesome impressions upon each and every pore of my skin.
Artificial,
Contrived,
Pretence,
The hourly gasp for air as reality stares me straight in the face.
Full blown eyes, enlightening the colours that spiral from the centre 'of it all.'
I feel The Chill,
The Chill that rattles each nerve ending of my very own self.
The Chill that lingers on its prey until words are drawn from its chest.
Words that are collected, stored and honoured but still struggle to be understood.
