Being lost by creativity, but lack words to deny shames. Being washed by words which finds all but sense of illusion to create sparks and blooms of conjuncted language of stanzas and versed of messages.
Steady verses, of words nothing but emotions.
I Always start by constant rehersals, of how a missing note might sound different, thinking.
But Wondering, how simplicity sounds all but sense, when burned all by pain.
In which we all cry for pain but it sounds burdens
