Every single day I see myself within these walls—
Dreaming, writing, cogitating—waiting for my Muse's calls;
Every single day I seem to sip the cup of vacancy,
Every day a wait-and-see within the sea Expectancy;
But there's a certain, subtle agency,
That many people never see,
But a shift in mentality could glean the musicality,
Of what a sleepy, sulking soul may call a bleak reality,
When really in reality the only criminality,
Is never recognizing the instrumentality,
Of solitudinousness,
In the cacophonous deeds,
There's the mellifluousness,
In the sickliest of seeds,
There's the luminousness;
So I wash in the basin,
Slumping through the soggy slew of sleek temptation
(A scary sensation),
Drudging through the sump without telluric validation,
For sweet illuminations;
Stretching all limitations,
Taking strongest seeds from furthest reach of my imagination,
Even sickly seeds are taken via sternest cogitation;
Many think my life consists of solely relaxation,
Making it deserving of their primest castigation,
But the slippery slope of the true situation,
Is that all the hours that I spend inside,
Stand as sweetest cyanide.
[transferred from Thirst collection]
Revisions Before Transfer:
August 29, 2017 1:42 AMAugust 9, 2017 3:08 AMAugust 9, 2017 3:06 AM
