Incoherant, illiterate to the point of a blur
The translations lost in the sound of the heard
He doesn't even know if these are even his words
Yet, he concurs.

Placing his trust in the palms of a ghost
It falls right through, not 'cause of the host
But emotions are as vague as the one who revokes
He waits, he hopes.

A written response is his painful denial
The author exaggerates the opinion he entitled
Stealing the words from the heard was too vital
He types, re: tired.

The author's exausted, insomnia solemly breaking him
His journal was shaking him, pages ripped and began hating him
Whimsically faking them, he spoke and the ghost was changing him
It tears him, it fades him.

The lines were read to few and far between
Skimming through the seems of everything it seemed
That something was nothing unless it was seen
The heard, the scene, the record company.

Blurred Vision
Weathered The Storm

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