Sometimes I can see the words.
I can see the colours before I start painting.
Other times I falter in the darkness
Trip, brush in hand
The silent keys of my instrument of torture terrorize me.
They will not click, will not type without my instruction.
And so, I play.
I paint with words.
The colours eventually show themselves in the darkness.
Line after line.
I race to fill them up, which
In turn. In time.
I drift from page to page
Lies and fantasy I dream
To what end?
To live? To lie?
But only once I dream the words will I sleep and dream the dreams sleepers do.
Speaking of sleep, I was literally nodding off while writing this. So if it is shit, I apologise… I’m not humaning right this nightness