Posture and progress

I am the king of short phrases, because my good intentions never make it that far.
My hand is at the seam, strained.
I'll never make it that far.

I am begging for mercy at the hands of myself.
I am drowning in my own ink, reaching for the rim of the well.
Tilt me over onto a canvas and let my thoughts transpose.

So all that's needed is a bridge of light, where visions and thoughts are the passer bys.
Crossing the t's and dotting the i's in the space between connection and sight.

I want my words to act as the weather,
sealing gaps in the dialogues between a man and another.
While you wish to live forever,
I only wish to forever live in the kinds of words written to live by.

Save this shell of a man before his fractures bring him down.
Hold his words captive as he held the pulse within his fist.
(Gripping throats but killing cotton, serves as management for the most uncommon.)

Buried underneath a burden, leaking thoughts out onto the pavement.
Pull me from the wreckage and follow the scars painted on my body
to the heart of a mouth sewn shut.
Hid behind these walls lay the lion, like trapped thoughts in a cage.
For this is an emergency, please operate and remove my stories.