There were rules, hard edges to cut my words upon. Times to love and times to cry: but what of the tears that run liquid beneath my wanton desire? What place for thoughts that bleed across the lines of timely lucidity? Lost tides, and drift wood words; conversations left parched and wanting. I never wanted to be appropriate, to swallow the streams of conscious creation as Kronos stones, held within my fate-frightened belly. I never wanted to be bound within the rigidity of normal, to tie my tongue with the saccharine noose of niceties. I didn’t want neat lines and ordered phrases carefully wiping away my overflowing dynamism.
You didn’t want my messy, but when you cleaned me up, all that was left was the lonely chasm of silence.