We talk so much yet we have nothing to say.

As a kid, I never was the type to color in the lines.
I used to wonder, why do the lines even exist?
When these pictures in my head are ripe for harvesting
And I can give the world something it’s never seen before.

I remember sitting in bed, as a child
looking up at the ceiling
I couldn’t sleep, of course,
And so set about to thinking
I wondered, what are dreams made of?
Are they stardust and galaxies?
Are they the tendrils of existence
Reaching inwards from eternity?

Pressure knocks at my door
A clock ticks and demands its due
The lava burns from the floor
But not in a game like it used to.

So little time to figure it all out
So many distractions to prevent success
I’m in a dark forest with no path or route
But this internal fire knows no rest.

I’ve been worried since I left the womb
Like a schizophrenic on shrooms
Like a hypochondriac on crack
Never shy with the panic attacks;
Internal reality succumbs to psychosis
Dreams destroyed by self-diagnosis.

You brought me to places
I’d have never thought to go
To a trail near the river
Where the water runs slow;
To a mountain where all we heard
Was our voices’ echo;
You showed me inward beauty
That doesn’t show in photos.