Gold Wheat

I sit in front of an ash filled table. Papers are strewn all over. The colors of pens lying on the table confuse me as I choose one to snap in two. Simple pleasures are taken away. I write and think while I think what to write. It grows, it grows.

Listening to it, I can't help but remember things that transpired, how it has effected me, how it's molded me, continuing to mold me. I have this hate, this lust for relief. Like a chained demon, bellowing, screaming, begging to be let loose. Then I watch the ocean, waves, and the simplicity of human emotion and I forget the demon. A want to love and be free washes over me, then it gets jealous or something else provokes insanity, tickling my blood and it begins all over again. I don't understand, yet I do, and I sometimes wish I didn't.

You all had insect eyes.

And i'm always late......i'm always late.