poetry is supposed to flow, just like water: Mess

it falls from the sky, shedding

tears from heave above. provoking.

the tears hit me. such a

sensation on my skin leaving me limitless.

liquid trickles over my body, giving

me goosebumps and raising every hair it

passes over.

I am now enveloped in a hydrated

cocoon and find myself using only my

sense of feeling, as in to touch.

attempting to grab the water, it being

entirely malleable, runs over and

through me.

until it drips off of me, plunging towards

the ground.

it hits with a great velocity and plasters

the surrounding area.

I realize, just like poetry water

can not be stopped.

only redirected.

stories will never stop being told.

whispers will always be heard by those who are listening.

and dreams will never end.

 

a notebook piece by Mess.

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