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'my thoughts aren't my own'

standing in the back has always been easier. or... it's what i'm used to, anyway. old habits die hard, don't they? and seclusion means solitude. at least for the most part. you stand in front of the sea. you see it. you douse yourself in it. you are it. me? i'm where the rocks are. forcefully growing flowers on them in the dark. it's a threshold in the middle of outer space. ironically enough, i was once fascinated by the existence of liminality. now my thoughts are lodged in it. as rocks. as flowers. they mould me. they are me.

most days, it feels like my thoughts aren't even my own. yet i steal their flowers only to pass them to the front. and then i swallow back the rocks. i paint your walls with quatrains and wash the strikethroughs. when the waves crash and i do too, i urge you to run closer to the former instead. it's a bit vain, after all. to assume i stand in a position meaningful enough to be able to light your path for you. but if i'm humble enough to consider myself nothing but a speck of dust, i hold enough conceit too; at least enough to think i'm the speck of dust that only floats under the sun.

when your flower wilts away and night falls
when i'm not the only one left in the dark
you come back for the rocks instead
but i've already crumbled them to dust

because when push comes to shove, the one who scribbles, for anyone, never once sets apart

what really is, and what's yet another excerpt from a book they'll never write.

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*dust