I've been painting pictures so I guess call my life a canvas
Man this hand just doesn't want to work for me
Unraveling dreams Piscean tendencies
That same canvas blank
I'd keep it that way if I was Dorian Gray
But I'm a bit more Salvador and I speak like the Dali lama
So Tina eat your food
Need a full stomach to handle a life that's so crudely painted
Hand this man a brush his fingers are aching
So many heartaches and break ups
But he made sure to cover it up with psychology
All those misgiven apologies burn like letters set to the wind
And he's just typing letters into words that form ideas that might just touch upon your soul
A lost soul trying to find his way in a world so cold but he burns so bright
A hermit smoking anesthetic to numb the aesthetic and let him vibe
He had love love lost he paid the cost his pain is what lets him know he's still alive
He swallows blotters to shatter his ego he knows he slows when he lets go of pride
He knows he glows when he shows what's inside and he doesn't hide
As long as he stays focused and doesn't sidetrack he might just lay tracks that sets the fame train in motion
'Til then he's just steady coasting trying to get away from drinking love potions and all the usual commotion
Unusual is his potential once he's awoken and has sunshine instead of torrential rain draining his aim in life
His aim isn't a white picket fence, green yard, and beautiful wife
He wants knowledge and truth
He writes this on his wrist as he ties his noose
Because it's all just a role actors in positions like planetary conjunctions and oppositions
It's all just aspected
Why does he feel defective
What is his soul objective
He tries to stay objective through all that he's subjected to
Thinking he isn't the only one how it couldn't be true
All the things he knows now that he now wish he knew
Sitting back tripping by himself he himself watching himself watching the pretty colors change hues
He hears a tune pied piper playing to elude the cosmic symphonic etude
Falling back he is into his hermitude
And he doesn't mean to be rude he just knows when the universe calls the Jude
He's biding his time waiting for June so he tells himself "Don't July to yourself"
He's high on himself
Too high on his shelf brush the dust off the buckled belt of the book cover and uncover
What's between the pages of the heart he never felt
He now realizes
Why did he paint his soul blue?
About the Creator
Docyele Llenretep
Mystic, Empath, Shaman, Reiki Practitioner, Exorcist, Occultist, Poet, Writer, Healer, and Hermit. I am called many things, by many names, with many titles, but you may call me Docyele. I practice many different paths and observe all I see.
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.