I'm a decaying piece of organic matter, but you can call me Claire. I'm a bookworm, isolated in the depths of non-reality, I live in splotches of color and orangey sunsets-- sometimes even in the absence of color at all, like a boring newspaper spread on Sunday mornings. I breath and long, intricate sentences come out, weaved neatly of beautiful adjectives and solemn metaphors. I whisper activism in my deepest sleep. I am alive in the most ways possible, I have an eye for beauty and an ear for music. I sit alone sometimes and ask the world why I'm here, and I still haven't got much of an answer. I will never give up on asking. I will never stop thinking, and I like that about myself.
Tip Toes and Cosmos
Stars swelling behind my glittering thoughts
Freckled with stardust, we breathe creation
Glimmering moonshine strobes beneath our skin
Dancing rhythm in sync with the ether
Kindred souls are born ‘neath pregnant night skies
With thoughts a glow and brightness unalike
Sunlight, putting a rest our stirring ego
Elixirs of existence filling full
Chakras and Chis, swirling movements with love
Harmony of the sleeping engulfs dreams
Melodies of thought consume what’s real
Swaddling souls with love of a mother
Engorged with fruitful existences, her
Children are the flashlights we require
Eyes open willingly in the darkness
Hazy sleep airs out our souls with vacuum
So infinite we live beyond the skies
Adorned with sequined patterns of time past
We move on into the indigo hour
And stretch into shapes of desire, resting bodies
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