This behemoth hill seems to be pressing itself against my avidly run wild mind
Every moment a slipping movement in time and overhead both quite ironic and literally – gone over all of our heads seemingly
Cannot see the straight and most probably sallower than thou ground for all of these treacherous nonetheless instrumentally rocky pavements I constantly do opt upon pounding
Try and remind yourself how imperfect gaining perfect truly can be
When a creative mind is utterly, preposterously, needlessly so blinded by nothing but a need for pointless slumber
I’m cumbersome, I’m slipping like never before

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