I’m not who they say I am – I write while sipping the wrong kind of medicine entirely
I sketch my ego upon these characters’ faces – broken who breathe
Then when time permits I imagine all of the things we might do together – and harnessing, harassing, perhaps – the whole darn thing
So precariously colourful it makes the rest of you, albeit far more real, agonisingly so, glare in silent awe at our show-steal time and time
Sad and preposterous some will say, but an imagination this boundless and creative waves goodbye to all of these lonely nights
I lied when I said I could see none of it, just a surefire must to set your flavours pandering wholeheartedly all over again
I see it more than you and yours could ever imagine – quite literally
But, yes, truth be told minus the cognitive colour I’m just about as lonely as one handsome man ever gets to become
I smoke ten-thousand cigarettes to choke out a young life filled with a fair degree of pent-up regret
One last question, will you even remember me? And these fictional fairy-tales…
Snail-pace an absolute abomination in this radiant instance

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