There's a pull to this hole
A gravitational pull,
As strong as any
Massive collapsed star.
It works like this: I want to write
I NEED to write, but
To get to the place where I
Need to be, demands of me
A certain mind
A certain, funny kind of mood,
That can digest all the best of my world
Stripping off parts,
("Spaghettified", they call it,) until
I'm stretched so thin you
Might not even recognise me.
But ironically enough, it's
Only then, when I'm stretched out thin
A streak of dust, that the
Flecks of gold
Laid bare, their conceit
Can reflect the light
And how brilliantly they shine.
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