Moaning.

Laying sedate as the milky morning light washes through the windows as they bathe in the gentle residue of a night’s dreaming that kindly bids farewell before tiptoeing back along the sands of reality, clawed back by the beckoning waters of the endless tides of anonymity. Forgotten like ageless kings with rusted trinkets and great halls derelict and inhabited only by dusty ghosts that smile without cause. Gliding along pregnant memory that kicks from inside forgotten possessions, the possibility of being reclaimed and treasured like leisure as if its business. As meticulous detail begins to take hold and spill ink over silk and lay waste to the luxury of being cherished. To mean something to someone, or that something means someone to something. They highlight her in cinema blue and say forget what’s true.

The shards of reflection aren’t so easily pieced together when memory is embedded in bruises. To forget completely the pain of a wound the twisted instrument that tore at your flesh and bled your emotion must be removed.

 I’m not even that smart but I seem to have acquired a reputation for being this introverted troubled sensitive boy, all tortured and sad, with big blue buttons for eyes that look ready to spill tears at any moment like undercooked egg yoke. People often ask what the matter is when there isn’t anything wrong at all, anything that I think is wrong isn’t wrong and I’m just being melodramatic anyway, because I’m a sombre melancholy little rag doll of a boy, who annoys all the other toys.

I wish that I didn’t think that this was a pale imitation of someone I’ve never heard of because I am a pale imitation of smorgasbord of people that I haven’t got a half chance of even knowing about their existence. I am a absent minded daydreamer blowing bubbles out from a cage, and if my cage is rattled I’ll shiver and retreat behind my farce of a shell and write awful rhymes and do a stupid shuffling dance whilst lecturing deaf singletons on the crime of romance, but they won’t listen.