I'm a boring writer

All this mediocre fluff isn't enough

to get me to sleep at night.

A layered art inside a dream where headlights charge

and I sneak between,

Its like dying young to me.

Though I've never been as old as now,

or felt it quite like this.

Theres a time and place for everything

you say nothing always fits.

For now the frequencies can bend the leaves

far enough to focus me away from everything.

Blurry eyes as I wake up,

there's an old man looking for his crutch.

I offered you a coin to spare

and compare the place that you still don't dare

to look around for pictures

inside of ash and rubble's past,

a structure you know will never last,

it's starting to get so boring.