Decan'twaiter

My creativity is a blinding light in the Play-Doh cave allegory I’m living. The monkeys still haven’t figured it out, stare droll at the wall, all of their lives spent drooling, too difficult to wipe it away.

My advices poke at dense fat, undergrowth, I can believe it’s not butter. So hollow a gong beat do my words fall at my feet. There’s nothing like familiarity to strike a razor harp, over kneaded and undervalued.

A sweater to stifle the sweeter alternative, stylized standoffs represent sorrow. Self-loathing will do that to you. Rip your wings off and scream that you were never meant to fly away. It’s kitchen counters, the minutes, the hours. Between the sifting troughs and weigh-ins, the only thoughts are wrought to the point of breaking.
decanter