When the ground is incredibly cold and the night is calm
But my mind roars like waves of torrent
And my wounds reopen in rewinding frames
From hours, to days, to weeks and years ago,

When imperfection, in its not so perfectness rubs it's muddy hands in my face
Reminding me that I'm a walking mass of perfect, not so perfect,

And when staying awake becomes a chore but falling asleep is escape, and facing reality is harder than before but living a dream is pure bliss,

I like to rearrange the words that lay scattered across my mind's floor
that my soul may be made over, that I may live my dream ten times over,
that I may keep the perfect in the not so perfect over and over and that my wounds may close never to open from ages over.

So when the musing is right and the mind bulbs light
This is why I write.