above the fog, below the dirt

in circles, usually we go.
and when the little spinning stops,
in rest and lost
and comfort can we wait.

but i am sick of waiting.
to this day my lack of satisfaction
offers little more than longing
rather sit i in uncertain complications
than go and do or even make decisions.

a plague has blackened, littered up my brain
with sweetest sad and melancholied thoughts
while watching youth about me make their ways
adventuring and living gloriously
i lose myself in dreaming still
and hate my fantasties

someone told me once to feel it out
instead of using all this energy
to "hold it in" and let it fill me up
but all I feel is festering displeasement
boiling my liver into blood
and shaking up my once full-certainties
by baking them as burnt and crispy discs
they've cracked and left me blisteringly empty.
I will not stop since I am happiest
when there is little time to think ahead
- and we all know our finest elements
like when as children swimming in the pool
or playing in our rooms with toys and games
we secretly believe the stories swimming through our brains
of beautiful adventures making every creature crazy

it's all grandeur in my head,
but not delusional or false
instead its true to me
like Sun is true to trees
an uncontrollable dependency

and as the trees reach pointed towards the sky
so shall I
so shall I