The spiderwebs we’ve weaved have reverted to dusty dungeons.

The repetition for results is a game of catch

Where lyrical acrobatics create the illusion of

“Yeah, I caught it!”

The game doesn’t end.

The colors all bled into each other, the light murked into a dull brown

Like oatmeal getting moldy in the back of a murky store room.

But we’re here again.

12:24 PM and the day’s already been lived-

Everything else is necessary overtime.

I swipe hundreds of cards but couldn’t unlock my own door.

My laptop, like myself, incapable of charging their battery.

I’ve listened to maybe three songs in the past week,

But everyone keeps asking me to describe how music makes them be feel,

And be smart. Eloquent.

Genuine feelings turn into pedestal soliloquies that fade away like background trophies you don’t think you deserve.

Teeter-tottering between drowning and flying away on the boat, I’m jetskiing into an uncertain future.

I don’t know what the hell’s gonna happen.

And I’m learning to be okay with it.

The first step to this peace is to start back in the things that made me feel alive.

The first of those, is you.

You reading this? Yeah, you.

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Internal Poetry, Poetry, Problems, Stuff to do, Throwback

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