When I begin to ramble.
My thoughts turn into a senseless line of babble.
I try to piece together the intangible seams.
Of the thoughts that fly by on endless reams.
Opaque foreseeing memories that exist only in my dreams.
I’d like to make it all real, but that’s never been the deal.
So I close my eyes, clear my mind and begin to feel.
I let my mind hold me against my will.
Time passes without much consideration.
Making my mind a constant declaration.
Of a thoughts perception of an imperfect description.
Of a dream that seems to be an unvarying revelation.
Trying to open my eyes without much precipitation.
Solely pushing me to reach my fullest amount of elation.
By pursuing the things that don’t cause dilation.
From what it is my mind has pushed me to see.
So when I awake I just solely return to the fundamental me.
Hoping that everything wasn’t solely a dream.
That maybe in some way I could see.
How to make it real, how to be.
What it is that my thoughts conceive, me to be.
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