My thoughts are compressed,
And saturated,
Like that concentrated,
Juice of orange.

Acidic and contorted,
Mutated in some way or another.

At this moment?
Under the airy breeze,
That my thoughts decided,
To create a land of amazing delightedness.

Of nonesensical yet wondrous,
Arrangement of common sense.

Yet here I claim that they are mine.
When they are but from a supernatural being.

My thoughts.


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