A deep rooted sense of uneasiness.
An outsider in my own right.
Call Me Ishmael.
I dont belong here. I dont belong there. I dont deserve this that or the other. The pen is my lover. We walk roads paths filled with faces that change with the scenery. Where purple is green to me. There is no up so i get down on the mic on, on the stage, put the pen to my page and just be. Thats where i belong thats whats home to me. A sea of words soround me. I play connect the dots with the punctuation which turn to musical notes and then I play them. Still I am not happy. As jaded as I've always been.The pursuit is all i can hope for. The chase is as good as it gets. And as I listen the rift begins to make me cry.
I guess a twinkle in an eye is just a twinkle in an eye