These objects around me... They want to hurt me... They're sharp, They want to poke me—want to draw my blood. They're shiny, They want my attention—want my focus. This wall in front of me... It wants me to escape into it... It's rough, I notice the patterns—notice the unpurposefulness. It's safer, I could stay right here—stay and watch its unidleness. These objects around me... What are they...? They're mishaping, They turn to surrealism—turn to mush. They're darkening, They become unclear—become blurred... After time, So much dear time—much stillness. I see them; Those dreaded objects—dreaded shininess, sharpness... But my eyes can always focus... Back onto the uselessness, Bland, Safe, Wall.
An archive from @michaelarchives.
