The Source of my frustration is realized at the awakening forms of night. I swivel because, in bed, I hear loud trains coming to remind me of my expressions. With words to shout and visions to enlight. Here the cloak of my nightly wear is worn in true uniform. The stars shine on my forms as I can now taste the energy between my words. The taste is sweet and bitter for how have I misplaced this practice for so long? Knowing in me is this desire to write and to express passion. I’ve demonstrated forms of resplendence before, but now I want to resurrect bones with the word. Juxtaposition and refrain all surmise the notions inside my abilities. My eyes clothes… They wear what fashion awaits me on the runway. My dreams seem to place me into a much more believable reality. I can grasp and unresolved the forces around me. Rectifying all of the powers which have been laid down.
writing until the pen runs N2 paradise clarity! (by uniform & random means) 
Your realization and expression of the drive to write and what it feels like takes the ethereal, ephemeral feeling and presents it visually. I really like your explanation