Where is this going? This line of fresh daisies and acrid smoke. This line drawn taut like fishing line bringing up this total abandon and friendly parents across the street from the depths with the calm breeze of blue and gray. Crashed out with a streaming fire dolled up with blisters and cracks along the ever present freeway of your heart that circulates the longing and interruptions of freedom. This isn't going anywhere. Is it? I'm just gaining weight. Emotionally speaking, all this baggage. And the brain surgery didn't help. And these ink trails leaking down my sides: the dramatic dripping off me like pinstripes. Ah well. The emptiness is like silence and the filler is just a cacophony. If I could hear correctly I wouldn't want to anyways. Get it over with, take out the parts that aren't doing it anymore. Cut off my limbs and paint gaudy smiles upon my upper arms. Take off the lampshade and squint at what was dampened before. Feel along the underside of the crease. Fold in my heart where likenesses of foolhardy explorers were carved to the disappointment of me, myself, and cry outside near the casting glance of a river that fills up with the clouds all so blue and clear. Is it pink or blue? Is the mind a tone? A hue? Does it change color when it deceives itself? A procedure will be needed soon to make sure this doesn't go too far.
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