Line

I don't want to be on point from the start
I want to stumble a bit, blur the lines a bit
Learning to draw straight never came easy until it became an art

An art I learned through time; through the experiences and
through the mishaps that I tend to find.
So I wait for my mind to recreate time.
To stop the pause and what it's caused, thus I'm endless

Yeah I could draw a straight line with a ruler in one hand
Yeah I could sharpen my dull pencil and call that art.

Yeah I could. I could.

But it's too easy you see. I want to draw without the ruler in hand
All sorts of eyes peek into my sight. They've become dimensionalized.
I'll need more than just that pencil to transfer everything.

Familiar Stranger

I feel like I've known you before. I'm unaware of you but some how
I recognize you too. An acquaintance from another
life, perhaps. Observing the actions, I can predict them all too
well. Its a strange deja vu in the air.

It's been years now. I know when to talk to you when no one else
would understand. You get me in this fool's game. I'm not too trustful,
the gullible innocence that was once there is gone. I'm on the the next
and it seems I'm better off.

But in a moments notice I fall back to old habits. My mind summons
what I had already forgot. You've come and gone and it's become
consistent. My emotions are never settled and they never will
be because I will always have to move on.

When the nostalgia hits it's like I'm dreaming in another reality.

Foreign

There is something excruciating about this thought. It's both mesmerising
and tedious. It comes and goes as it pleases, but sometimes it stays for
longer periods. When it does, I'm escaping the erupting world.

I feel freed by the mystics in its very vast forms through the instances when
it makes itself known. Encapsulated. Life persists to create the bridge, because
without it the music becomes too monotone. Repetition is when the illusion
distracts us.The time then presents itself for when you must perform the solo.
All focused on yourself and your craft, like art it creates, improvised in a foreign
state.

The feelings burn through you like shedding skin.

An honest feeling propelled by a difficult process.

High Tide

Web of cycles, everything is expanding. It repeats itself over and over again.

Until one day we learn. The repetition is meaningless if we can't understand it.

The messages are drilled into our minds so much so that they have no more 

impact. They've become viral and insignificant and thus vanished in a deserted

part of our minds never to be retrieved. 

His eyes were heavy with a sorrow that showed much depth. He wasn't easily

amused. His sight was vast and his interests narrowed because of it. He'd seen

the ins and outs. He'd experienced the repetition and understood the message all

too well. He didn't care for much and he refrained to show how little he did.
As a result, he felt tested of his will power, that awareness of his. 

The high tide came and went. The gravitational pull insisted. Nature always 

displayed a simple calm that no one else could. The forever movement of time

always existed. Stopping for nothing and thrilling only in moments. Those moments
were stored and they were chased, fulfilling that timeless bliss. The bars were
set, and they were hard to match up to. To better be forgotten became their fate,
so that moments to come with the next high tide were not missed.