I've been told I resemble weather patterns none of which you'd recognize.
True, as I find myself constructing the same very clouds I compromise.
I live in my mind.
Exhausted for an easy stomach and stopped thought, blank mind, hush now it's quiet time.

And Im incubating dangerous behavior,
but if my thoughts keep running faster than my words,
by the time I leave I'll have unspoken novels covering your room.
If every thought remains for days and days than resinates,
dispersing all it's million molecules along the way,
invention and creation settle in the mass above,
then clarity cannot escape because it never was.

Now when I go, carve piano keys from my bones and play me back to try to make sense of my~
over analytical, too critical of my own thought process that I~
Can't go on believing your truth, and go on receiving what you claim to be just what I need...