Under My Stitches

Under My Stitches

All the time.

All the time.

I tell my self

Even though I know who I am, I must know who's my audience.

 Blindy stitches of gray and back, negative or rainbows to

cover the reality of what is and what is true is only part of surviving.

 The perfect filter doesnt exists

The real filter doesnt either.

My filtered dreams are covered by a filmy gritty image that can be altered and turned upsidedown in

a matter of second but in the dream I paint there is nor gritty image nor image of rainbows.

I want my imagination to paint a perfect picture.

Because I can't rely on any other source.

I dont want THEM to stitch a perfect layer of namless filters to forget my reality.

A reality that is uncertain.

A reality where I have to take risks without a hand to hold along the way.

All the time I SIT and think about ways to please them.

24/7 and without a clue what to do with thtat I just scroll and find Some.

Some new way of wasting my time filtered by media.

When I jump of a cliff , will THEIR stitches rescue me?

Will my words mean anything without a cord that connects the world to my story?

All the time.

All the time.

I remind myslef to fall without a camera.