how is anything created within the small imagination of this world?
What did you expect? We are transfer sheets, bleeding on to each other in the dark.
I would rather scribble on my printer paper with colored sharpies
Carving slanted lines, running out of room around the corners
Stand and watch my superstitious delights with a puzzled grin, I'm used to that look.
Write to survive, create to take another breath. The mantra is engraved in me now.
Everything is personal in this scope, nothing left dim in the wake of the ink's light
I could waste days to create nothing of substance while my emotions bleed out in scattered thoughts
Stuttered ideas blot the pages in humorous decor, and it would never matter if you connected the dots
My dots, my rules.
The best part has yet to come out, but the urgency to surface is driving these fingers to cramp
Seven notebooks later and what may I offer you? Pieces of my childhood, broken relationship ventilation to air out the cobwebs
The pills may focus my mind but not my idling hands.
Tears for the saddest truths; don't give me that look. Have you never cried for what you have read?
Close off the valves, this heart is defective. The disgrace feels and bleeds to easily at a glance.
Return to sender, the letter is repetitive.
Soothing misinformation, the caricatures are well placed in unseen, unpolished glory.
You will know when I write of you, if it ever sees the light of day again.