I tried sending a message through time. Hearts beating, but not mine. I want to mention that it's from deep within, organised mayhem, published deep within the brain stem. Where logic & wisdom are allowed the freedom to explore new pathways for neurological disorders.
Quietly bordering on disorganised hindsight, the complete lack of foresight holds my mind hostage for crimes. Hearts beating, not mine. Visions I'm perceiving are leading me to believing, my mind indeed is dreaming, it's being held down by some clown.
Choose not do I dare pout or frown, for it be my place within this town that holds me close, just enough I can sense the sound, is it even possible to drown through analogue waves, crushing & tumbling me around while I flounder on dry land?
Knowledge precursors wisdom, to which shares logic with histrionic theatre, heart is beating on stage but not mine. The world is a platform for a show, but it's unlikely this clown will let everyone see, for fear is what keeps the beast at rest, rattlesnake in the bed, at the behest of this twisted mess.
Neurological transgression is the perceived logical reaction for a responsible person, leading me to believing in distorted perceptions, introspective visions show fortune's so cold, so bold, my mind may not be so old. I would never leave others out in the cold. I sense a heart beating still, it's quite cold, calculated and bold. This heart beating not mine, I sense it through the white noise static, senseless yet erratic.
©thegizz211
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