The eye is a tricky machine

And so I stopped for a minute.
I stopped and stood still and let time pass or run out a lot sooner than I can or I will.
And I could give a fuck about voices or pictures or what we've known or what we've said cause it's all wrapped up in star or stripes or left to awful dreams inside my head.
I'm failing to understand what I've never looked for over a shoulder, all the while overstepping the obvious, falling short or shame.
Putting my hand over my heart, but forgetting its name.
My finger's on the pulse… and though this pen writes we still live in a world waiting to be written.