they call it the little death.
my energy is spent, bumpin' and rockin' and knockin' the boots till all the youth-like energy is used up. she issued a warrant for my arrest but i defected and retreated inside my head, left the handcuffs locked to the headboard and blindfold tied tightly over my eyes. and i regret that i couldn't see her pursed lips or the time-weathered scar lines.
inside my mind i find no insight -- only binds; only aged ideas soaked in brine and left out to dry, shriveled up and coated with iodine so that the colors and textures are unrecognizable. who am i?
today i had friendly skies playing on my headphones after our facetime and became mesmerized. i wanna play a couple slow jams for her and show her what it's like to reside behind the eyes of a bipolar soldier during a manic reprise; show her how beautiful music sounds and pronounce how the elegance strings my vocal chords. and i want to expound, but really words can't describe the synergistic phenomena that presides...
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