I thought I was honest

that my lines were true

but it wasn’t

Maybe a half truth

A willed fragment underneath the floorboard of ideas

Then again

Maybe it was a lie

It didn’t make me look too polished

Yet it sounded rhythmic and astounding

As if somebody else had written it

for me…

through me?

I look at it again

And I really fucking contemplate, ruinate and internally debate

…and in the morning it looks like it should

The image un-obscured then illuminated by a flow of ambiance

And then I realise…

Nothing has changed, I’m still a dude at a laptop typing banalities nobody cares for…

Follow the Feeling