Sounds of gray
move through my atmosphere,
which I fear translates into music,
but no words.
Whispers,
only of notes that leaves
its mark on my thoughts.
I bought wine in order
to translate them.
The jazz had changed my focus
I wanted to feel my space
like locusts.
And touch the clouds.
I just wanted to understand how
it feels to cry,
and fly higher than I expected.
But the words never get me there,
So now,
I spare none,
They run along this sentence
with reckless abandonment,
opposing all editors,
or judgments in general.
I am now just trying to translate
and condense onto a plate
what goes on
into the head of a man
trying to live and love life's
changes in all it's forms.
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