This is not a journal
It was never about you
Even on moments I said it was
On captured lightning I
Arrogantly proclaimed as
I, receptive of you
In this canvas where my time/space is laid out
Where my indulgent existence occupies
A speck of dust is as important as the flood of Prussian blues
Sadly you shed the skin that held me
And those whispers that sparked my soul
Are the same that torched it whole
These things, I don’t know what they’re called
I don’t know what they mean
They are colors to monochromacy
I suffer willingly
The illusion of choice
Sand trickling down
Furrowing lines
Empty shells
Moving and becoming
danDAman 