Narcolepsy Sucks & Sleepy Stuff

Ars Poetica: "Phony"

Words quickly turn to color flooding my head,

turning into shades I never knew existed.

We have a love-hate relationship.

Never knowing if these are truly mine,

or just wisps of those long forgotten lines.

Am I phony,

shall I be telling this with a sigh,

about how the tree was happy,

and that there the moon-bird rests from his flight,

no that doesn't sound right.

Never mind feelings cannot be taught,

nor words be poured from the empty minds.

They are filled with Halon

extinguishing any signs of viable life,

yet in here is turpentine awaiting to ignite.