Overloaded

Overloaded.

Day after day, dreams I carry heavier than me, molded.

Just like bills, with increasing taxes... Like overdose of something so good that you just can’t avoid diving into, on and on, again, and again.

I am a tiny project of myself. It grabs me from all sides I can’t even imagine, tires me on the outside, and sets me vicious within.

Can’t deny it hurts. It hurts a fucking lot.

Hurts to be so awfully placed inside an ill silhouette, therefore its illness is the cause of all glory yet to come.

Like a bent bow being flexed though the arrow aims the looking glass.

A spear at the route of sharpness. To pierce the old compass.

Oh, boy, it is sharp. I can easily smell the starving tip.

It’s edging clasps, it’s hunger.

Gets stronger as it rests.

I am a bomb without the wick. I wait for the proper climate.

I will explode just before I condense to winter.

It will be shutting boring angels with a neverending dosen of the most pure funky hell.

Whenever I'm able thru the hole, I'll surely kick my butt outta this spirit cell.

And, even though I have to re-sign their terms, my seeds will always resign their turns.

Naturally, I was born on a distant land –

The fire, quest set sail as the very dance of my blood. Ship.

The air is that which will judge, beyond and before. Sails.

And the steel is eternity dressing my future. Swords.

Mission: Unload.

Codename: Reload.