#dramatic is me

ordinary april, stunning middle, pearl, i am the bastard-thine, numbly occupied.

it’s like i’m plummeting.

your opening hand exasperatedly yells "echo the lines", as if sameness is the survivor’s way.

that godmyth can’t hold me. a creative should have its fingers in milk, haunt the wild, misadventure, else the seeds rot.

echoes just do no good at all.

blame me when there’s not room for subtlety,  i don't have the eye for what might pass by.

i hadn't asked in love, but if i had, for a world beyond reach, the work of summer and winter, would’ve been taken, eaten whole. 

gotta roll inspiration relatively thin in a drowsy ever, and savor the vine from which it falls.