the process

i start
with an idea
growing consumed
with the story
as it grows
so wrapped up
in the miniutae
i lose track
of how it
evolves

what was started
is lost
in the amalgamation
of intent to
written word
until it becomes
unrecognisable
to the original

i cannot tell
larger then life
only able to
mine something
much more personal
so everything
contracts inward
swallowing scope
into a simmering
myopic hellscape

but i wish
just once
to capture
the original intent
bereft of agonies
leaving nerves
unexposed
something beautiful
untethered
to my many scars

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