~ pre-conceived image
tearing at the seams
from the new words with a realistic gleam,
moving tides changing in our eyes
like the moon pulling at our insides
we gotta enjoy the ride,
like they say...
it’s a journey not a destination - because what’s the point of a destination
if it will shift in an instant?
it’s tearing at the seams,
the sunlight’s pouring into the cracks
the dark patches...
it might be tearing at the seams,
torn like ripped jeans
but at least now our skin can fucking breathe,
the only way for any sun to get in
is for the fabric we put over our souls to cleave a little.
so... we’re ripping?
are we ourselves tearing,
or the illusion of ourselves?
the change sparks confusion
but to be stagnant inspires delusion
of what truly is the point in being.
we’re moving tides,
it might hurt to feel something we’ve clutched into for so long slip
out of our grip
because this grip
is what we know as safety
but this life is not about safety,
the curtain lifts...
we see ourselves with new eyes after the shift.
the veil is shredding now,
and more profusely,
one rip after another
like a butterfly breaking out -
this life unfolds before us
when we give it a chance
without the fear-like trace,
some sort of tensed up stance,
dancing with ideas of everything that could possibly go wrong.
we’re tearing at the seams.
starlights pouring in...