...those minutes fly by when I'm with you. Under the pressure of expectation and situation, they will drag on forever. I declare a state of emergency in my brain - shut it off...shut it off for now. Electronica is the healing which brings about all calmness, collectedness and placidity in one's soul. Beam down on me, the sweet sounds of synth as I rack my conscious in panic and fury. Soothe me in the onehundredandtwentyminutes of despair and hoope. Pray to the forces that the ink is kind, fair an just. Or else, honour your wrongdoings over the course of this year. This year, a whirlwind of a year (prdictable). Not over yet, I've still got to become an adult! Don't get ahead of yourself. Libraries, libraries, everywhere, but not a drop to drink. A waterfall of knowledge and a weath of creativity. Pools of lost hope, can I cope? Will I remember? I sure hope so. We all do. For if we do not, onehundredandtwentyminutes of pain and suffering. Onehundredandtwentyminutes will drone on in your mind and scrape it's vicious claws of hatred across your back. Across your hope. Through your perception of self. Be kind...ink...be kind.
(Why do I suddenly think I am a poet?)
Excuse the typos...
6 years ago