I don't enjoy getting older but the inclined feeling is it's inevitable. No soul is an ocean. The crash is a part of the land and the sea.
As age creeps in the sleeping world grips it's talons in me. It feels like I have no choice as to the weight of tiredness clenches. Hate it.
Stones toeing me to the bottom and the waves roll overhead. The dream starts before sleep hits. All the silence washes in and the hum of my thoughts is the dripping tap water that reminds me to wake the fuck up. No sleep as I have a world to paint. A New existence to create. The old world is trash and must sit on its own and wait for me to work tirelessly. Find me by the water. Ink and paint resting close on my face mushed into a pillow made of patience’s .
I have no patience. Must make, must breath the warm wild thoughts. Inspiration is like a naked thought. The heart behind the nipple and the cheek against them both layered.
I declared war of the last world with a paint brush in my hand. Find me inside the mouth of sleep.