Subsonic Influences

Linger.

In a sullen husk of what would be your life- in the shadow of a person you long to be.

Beckoning is your voice. Breaking; lost in the howling winds.

Grasping hands and clutching faces, a united woe- we feel trespassed in thought. Withering like grass without water, we wilt and fall still. We die and dissolve and life goes on.

Canned emotions. Bottled like a commodity you can purchase. If pink makes you happy, you indulge in it. Consume it until you leak it, your worthy agenda owns you.

Hobbies can and shall corrupt you. Jobs will-and quickly- deflate you. Goals that fence you in will always be out of reach. You become limit withstanding. An urge to break barriers fights on inside, speaking softly in the quiet of the morning. Speaking softly in the still of the night.

Sleep eludes the dreamers, we can never seem to shut our brains off. Creating a cloud of sleep while we move awake. Dreamers slumber in the now. Having become bored with dreams, we became immune to the rat race of the time that is our today and tomorrow. Wearing our hearts on our sleeves. We also roll up our sleeves...