Spilled

Language is my mistress.

Performing to an audience, is to show an an exuberant charisma.

If it's small or an over-abundance. You just speak or splash your thoughts onto a page.

Let the words run. Don't think about what you're saying.

Thinking only slows you down, holds you back, keeps your feelings caged.

My ideas, my thoughts, my creative aberrance.

Scatty, like daises, randomly spread across a clean cut garden like stars in an observatory sky simulation – impressive, interesting, inspiring, but missing the key beauty of the real night sky.

The variation of shines in order to survive, to be heard.

Courting and entertaining are skills that can be learned. Both are as hard as the assessment to ensure the personality of your interlocking half increases the attractiveness tenfold, leaving you comfortable with yourself, even if you have to give away, the next day, hour, sheer minute, lifetime.

Your belief systems are the thoughts in which your entire life, frame of mind is based. It's power, rested on the edge of a knife, gently pressed on someone's face. That which you believe in, exists and is true, but only to you.

Or to not believe is to not work, to not be involved, to not allow invasion of change, to push to block anyone, who tries to get in.

Even though my vocabulary seems rambunctious; my written word incredulous.

It gives a synopsis of the function, it is clear within the context, still, leaving you vexed.

Complex with the depth of which this is written like, a giant shell, broken up into sand.

It pleases me to think, that few of you will understand.

My feelings, my beliefs. Superfluous, exorbitant.

My repression and compression of every emotion.

The tension of my affection. Hidden. Building. Bottling.

Refusing to think of what has happened or what is yet to or will happen.

But only a forest fire could encapsulate all the pain and fear in my heart.

The only difference between them is that a forest fire, eventually, dies out.

Language is my mistress.