Prosaic Space Cowboy

I was set on overload.
My mind.
The ticking time bomb.
Waiting.
Anticipating.
A secondary belief.
A brief conclusion.
Like wings.
Soaring
corrupt.


Hi my name is Adam but you can call me an apology, an unconcerned citezen, ahuman being with no human intentions. I live under ground, under rail raids, my substence of drive is a pen and paper, I starve as a tortured artist, bringing to life the lifless. Breathless. :(


I had this spark of clinging light- intwined with random words- scorching like the desiese of
leaporsy- in full impact- frost bitten- A blizzard of cold hearts- Time redesighned- Autum
momentum slouched off falling leaves burnt by foot prints- dampening the soft underbelly of
mother earth's course rocky skin.

Our minds fly like flocks
Our voices swim like schools
Our bodies linger like a murder

Fingers touchdowned
Eyes homerunned
Legs crossed the finish line

Foul temptation- recreation- Our stoic sentence representing slow moves of genre- retaliating
Forcing vintage marks- the suger of trailing ants on freeways....and we learn how it works...
That spark, turning into flame- torching paper with ink as oil to ignite more- with fingers as
the switch to engage and the mind as an engine to pump ink through veins that pulsate through
oxygen waves of embrace- the hugs of familair annoying voices- continuing to never stop- to fix
upon leniant lines corrisponding through robotic movements.

- Dancing in round circles -
- Perfect blue marble -


The giant spheres floating upon black emptiness

Unheard

Seen through amplified glass and the speed of light- the spark of clinging light-intwined with
random words- Scorching.