Not Even

She thinks I'm the realest out, and I'm like damn that makes two of us. Oh that looks like whats-her-name. Chances are its whats-her-name.

I leave this part of the story out,

Because I don't know it myself.

Like my mind is a storybook with no illustrations.

The king's castle left to the child's imagination.

The deepest areas are the ones washed out by rain.

Like a book in a hurricane. 

Pages flying, ripping, tearing.

Ink running black and blue.

Making abstract art from art refined.

Obscuring the vision that you give your life's effort to obtain.

I write two pages, and leave out three.

The only way I know how to be.

The only things I know to see.

The only things I can possibly meet.

These words drown, while my capabilities drown.

My world is distorted through the raindrops on my window. 

The drops tell how you lie to yourself, and don't know why.

They just tell you, nothing more, nothing less.

We lie thinking it's truth.

Well, we might.

And that is just so powerful.

In grand context, there are no lies.

Because no one actually knows truth. 

But what do I know?

I'm spitting lies right now.

And so are you. 

possibly continued..

Author's Note

She thinks I'm the realest out, and I'm like damn that makes two of us. Oh that looks like whats-her-name. Chances are its whats-her-name.