It's pretty self-explanatory. Britain is a shit hole. And there's beauty in the most unexpected corners of my beautiful country. It'll probably be mostly uncapitalised bullshit I wrote fried off my ass. But I think it's at least somewhat interesting.

i left a jar behind.
watching, a thought and an observer separated worlds apart; as i kick the permanence of the jar underneath the mud.
a footprint of my history, stamped it's tiny stamp on the earth.
the stamp of a boy walking through a field next to a river, a boy and a thought and an observer split and drifting worlds apart.
the jar left under the mud in the field. as the river flows past. and i know that i have made a mark.
a mark that will last. no one may ever find it. no one may ever understand what the mark means. but possibly, one day, someone i do not know may find a trace of me. and they will not know me, or who i was, the nuances of my life, or what my motive was. they will not know my name, or my face, or my other footprints. but they will know one thing: i dropped a jar, in a field, next to a river. and i was a boy, and a thought, and an observer, split up worlds apart.

and i hope one day i will leave a larger footprint, complex enough to tell my story, and hopefully people will remember that story fondly.
but eventually, one day, i will be forgotten.
and i hope, some piece of the thought, or the observer, remain.
maybe as the jar in the field. maybe some other tiny footprint i leave. for i can only hope they remain, because i am not sure how they boy can express the thought, or the observer, split up worlds apart.
i do not know if i will be strong enough to leave a deeper, brighter footprint. i can only hope this will serve as a jar in the mud.
and the boy sits down. and reigns in the thoughts, and the observer, and reels them in. like focusing a lens. and he writes. for you. because somewhere, the i wish to tell you of the thoughts, and the observer split up worlds apart. and you will be my jar. and for that, i will be your jar.

life passes by in a blur
like a stream under a bridge
as i look down on the bridge
not really looking
the eye focused inward
focused inward, mulling over the intricacies of our lives
the bleakness, the sameness
the facades and follies
but purest of all, the sublime beauties. the small joys and accidental pieces of art created by our environment. the small happinesses and joys of the people around us. spreading like a virus, tinting our inner eye with a honey coloured lense.
it's not all bad when you stop to smell the flowers. or the rivers. the subtle scent of acrid smoke. the overpowering sweetness of a drink. the illustrious subtleties in the most basic of architectures surrounding us.

when i see you face reality becomes inconceivable.
is life without you truly living?
of all the men and women to have ever caught my fleeting attention you are the only to grab and and hold onto it tight.
your smile bringing warmth to my life and days.
when i see you i am driven mad by the thought of the interaction being fleeting.
the niggling need to see you again, bask in the beauty and blazing passionate heat of your cosmically unattainable visage.

no other form of art could be me the aesthetic satisfaction that is brought upon me by your perfectly constructed face.
divine inspiration incarnate.
living proof of a higher power.
how could a being so perfect and radiant exist without intelligent construction.
an intelligent construction designed to overwhelm and nullify my emotional defenses.
the divine inspiration that is your face leaves an imprint more permanent than that of a handprint in concrete.
a passion burning so bright future generations shall be serenaded by tales of your stunning, perfect beauty.
the beauty of your face, your body, your smile, your laughter.
the sound of your voice, and the graceful way you hold yourself.

a divine inspiration that has so deeply affected me.