A lonely soldier swims both within and against their favourite-best element

Some people weren’t born to be interested, just plain abruptly intrigued

As to his constant whereabouts – The instigated levels of whipsmart loneliness which forever abounded inside of his dilapidating studio

And the strength of the weather holds his favourite-best imprisonment, wherein the cracks of his sophomore skin ask for the light back and whisper sweetly, neatly, immediately near his nervous ear for complete concentration

He seems to rather enjoy the unofficial soirée away from anywhere but his own – Brain put upon alarming fire…

Water – And he will swim amid a world of unasked-for tragedy
All awhile waving himself gladly away…

And brought back to the glistening shore once more, with the eagle-eyed yearning of a brand new day

There is resilience, then… … … there is This

Be in your confidence, be of left-field
Be in your BAD BOOKS, be self-superceded – Making the perched easel’s perception mean MOTHERFUCKING everything

When these paints sprint right by the eerie silence of his peripheral vision
Only then will they forever fail to escape past the might of the cauterised eye

Burning the skin, the flesh, to make sense of itself
When geniuses outmanoeuvre mere pretence and unfasten the height of their mind to the white-lie which carries with it falsified fame – Nowhere to be by the end but for a shrill, simple footnote which shall far outstay, outweigh…

The meagre meanderings of the longwinded paragraph – After all, aren’t utilised words anything if only

An artist’s favourite-best stepping-stone: Home

Bruised and battered and jaded words, like a travelling version of the very same person

All about to crash comfortably atop of: A Canvas Calls