Imaginary conversations with myself

Having to leave to find my way. Stumbling over every action.
Putting up the walls to save me and which leave me shaking.
All this talk of passion, the overrated use of dialogue.
Speak to me in movement, show me your change.
I push and pull, fumbling over emotions.
Getting lost in exhausting labour, tolling emotional behaviour.
Ring the bells, and watch me fall.
Have you seen me, can you hear? My voice well-travelled.
It’s not my fault, if only you could see yourself. Licking gasoline.
So I travel at night, into praxis, into tomorrow.
Lost in confusion, yet you tell me it doesn’t matter.
You say you want me. You want my here. The same air you’re breathing.
The weather of our emotions is lifting and I still try to twist and turn things around.
Holding my breath.
Touching me deep.
Such strange ventilation. Words, words, words.


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