As a kid, I never was the type to color in the lines.
I used to wonder, why do the lines even exist?
When these pictures in my head are ripe for harvesting
And I can give the world something it’s never seen before.

Pressure knocks at my door
A clock ticks and demands its due
The lava burns from the floor
But not in a game like it used to.

So little time to figure it all out
So many distractions to prevent success
I’m in a dark forest with no path or route
But this internal fire knows no rest.

We talk so much yet we have nothing to say.

I remember sitting in bed, as a child
looking up at the ceiling
I couldn’t sleep, of course,
And so set about to thinking
I wondered, what are dreams made of?
Are they stardust and galaxies?
Are they the tendrils of existence
Reaching inwards from eternity?

You brought me to places
I’d have never thought to go
To a trail near the river
Where the water runs slow;
To a mountain where all we heard
Was our voices’ echo;
You showed me inward beauty
That doesn’t show in photos.

Sometimes it feels like even if
Every inch of my skin was touching yours
I still wouldn’t be close enough to you.