This Sleep Scattered Life

Of all of my minimalisms
Of which I've sorted

The few I display now are only hints
After completion of a thousand piece puzzle

Born of revelations
Beaten ‘til death or curdle

In the hopes of wringing out a fellow human, or guitar string, or skyline

But they're all just playing-with-myself
Lubricated with my favorite compound molecules

And everything I choose to minimize, in time, causes me to lose out on fellow hearts.

So, at least all these words I find are my conscious
And will always be mine, despite any coming-to-mind adjectives

Whether yawning awake, or rambling on a supplemented overdrive

In this sleep scattered life.