Posted by: SPT | February 25, 2011

Sea? Or is it C? Si, I believe.

Listening to the news, I see my history as the present, living in this moment with the memories of my past. Time keeps moving, but my vision is not losing traction to the ever increasing tactics I’ve learned. If my life is my limit, then I want to make the most of it. Concentrated, I can spew my lyrics onto whiteboards empty with space. When the message fades like the billboards of our roads, I believe in the jaded role it plays, unaware of the impact it has made.

Cut yourself free, I say to the breeze of emotions that pull at my seams. Void of the spirits that torture good souls, I know, the potential is a low-blow estimate of what all this planet tolls. Why cut short, why cut at all, when the frays that lie on my edges come apart on their own? Could this be the story of my world, a simple elmer’s tale of how glue didn’t hold, and how the issues saw their fold before the river or the turn. The pot is raising stakes on each habit I’ve made, but at a sideglance, I couldn’t believe the lies, the twisted story of our times. How can I forget this moral? Sad cues and empathetic views push me over the edge, but afraid to take the dive, I sit and stride back and forth, move about the entire floor. I can push each button, pull together the beat, but repetitiveness sits on repeat. And I didn’t see – that before the moment convinced me, I was able to leave. The seams that held together my thoughts, unraveled and torn, have already been told and worn. Each tread, and every step that was born is another step forward.


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