there is something alive in me.

There is something alive in me. Something begging to crawl across every inch of skin and make its presence nothing less than noticeable. Never. Negligible. Step by crawling step, stretching my veins out and pressing my muscles apart, its trying to make me cry out. It wants me to scream. To make a sound. And call attention. To myself. It indulges in some sense of self importance, of occupying space, like it’s a right, more mine than anyone’s because who is fucking demanding it.? sits at tea tables and trashes the workings of the world around 3 pm every afternoon.politely keeping time with the norm. the discipline of punctuality should make me want it more. It wants me to believe the stars shine because I believe in beauty and the moon talks to me because we are students of the same philosophy. Reckless calling to the wild. Four footed. Instinctive like the awkwardness of a sugar rush in an anorexic faith. Its pushing my neurons shut, so my eyes can take over. My eyes and my lips spitting words that tumble after words that are nothing less than pure. Nothing less than perfect. Nothing less than completely unexpected. Bound to give me trouble for the complete. Confusion. In them.
Because who wants to hear anyone who doesn’t have any answers. Who all of a sudden turns stupid in the face of moments because they refuse to be felt?