It's harder to express my feelings through written word
everything I write dies
like a plant you buy and water once.
If it survives
it does so because it grows wild
and parasiticly takes root in my mind.
So many stories
rattling around in an empty skeleton;
one that lacks the facilities to pen them.
green leaves take over
growing up through sun-bleached ribs.
Fern and flora burst
through hollowed eye sockets, trailing over sharp cheek bones
until the yellow-white form is fully overtaken by that which it could never sustain.
My greatest fear
to be engulfed by ideas that my head could not contain.