Trouble
With a capital everything

Floored and dishevelled til endlessly deplored – a shrinking-violet sensation never realises his favourite wings
Confused and utterly bitten by the bitter bug, frozen in time and enthused to contagiously crying

On crazy kinds of constant while he imagines the ultimate in lucrative rewind

‘Tis forever the weak people – meagre and uncontrollable imbeciles carried by lacklustre, unmotivated and unable – who tremble inescapably within, holding hope for hostile hostage, accustomed fear nestled and twisted invigoratingly nearby their screaming minds for their very best-friend

And it never ceases to amaze these whispering people who will no doubt continue to fear for his whereabouts time and again
Swearing beneath these waterfall lips of his, against the searing heat of the soaring hot sun – juxtaposition overload smoke which smoulders

That he could have, perhaps should have been someone when nothing was ever getting to letting itself to fantastically occurring
All of it haphazard and questionable to the very last – please, speak to me and try and have a hearing heart

And let it let itself finally be: fine, fine art
Otherwise these smiling eyes of misshapen his will turn themselves deceptively inwards all over again… re-shifted and reshaped to paralyse one whole life
And never get to letting themselves to becoming… his only knowing thing

On this hurting Earth, whereby wherein he feels a fierce and piercingly unstoppable need
To trust next to no-one

If only, if only, if only
He could just so much as find his own way home
Wherever that may well have been…

Once upon a heartbreaking case of the mistaken perhaps, and they say that he has been asking for too much attention and that he will fail to take all. of. it. back.

Seems the system only dreams in total darkness and he’s been standing at the light-switch for going on two whole decades now

Searching to unearth its wanderlust whereabouts – have to ask, why are you hiding from me? When it is as plain as the day I was born to be…