some distant cries,
too far off to be understood,
but close enough to exist in my world.
it's a hollow shrieking voice,
that cries of conflict avoidance,
and a whispered lullaby with verse that touches,
touchy subjects,
like the fear of failure,
and the fatal nature of this fear,
and the fact that furniture wont save us forever.
someday we'll have to leave the couch.
some days I think,
only if, only,
but even if my only if persist,
I'll never reach the if,
the materialistic mystically dream based bliss.
and it's when i realise this,
that the black and bubbly liquid in my stomach,
turns over and boils,
turns to run from my life,
and fist fulls of problems,
toils.
often the distance,
off in the distance ...
