I am the king of short phrases, because my good intentions never make it that far. My hand is at the seam, strained. I'll never make it that far. I am begging for mercy at the hands of myself. I am drowning in my own ink, reaching for the rim of the well. Tilt me over onto a canvas and let my thoughts transpose. So all that's needed is a bridge of light, where visions and thoughts are the pa**er bys. Crossing the t's and dotting the i's in the space between connection and sight. I want my words to act as the weather, sealing gaps in the dialogues between a man and another. While you wish to live forever, I only wish to forever live in the kinds of words written to live by. Save this shell of a man before his fractures bring him down. Hold his words captive as he held the pulse within his fist. (Gripping throats but k**ing cotton, serves as management for the most uncommon.) Buried underneath a burden, leaking thoughts out onto the pavement. Pull me from the wreckage and follow the scars painted on my body to the heart of a mouth sewn shut. Hid behind these walls lay the lion, like trapped thoughts in a cage. For this is an emergency, please operate and remove my stories.