Once I start writing I can never stop.
It's like birth, once you start breathing,
You can never stop.
It's like drugs, once you start using,
You can never stop.
It's like love, once you start loving,
You can never stop.
It's like dying, once you start dying, you can never stop.
Writing is like birth, a new beginning, a blank page a fresh start.
Writing is like a drug, addticting, making me see alternate universes and strange creatures,
Writing is like love, there once was a Romeo and a Juliet. And they lived happily ever after.
Writing is like dying, with each  page that's bleeding ink, you seal a little but more of your soul onto the page. A different kind of horcrux,
One that cannot be broken.
It's written in blood, in ink, in thoughts and dreams.
In life and death

Anyone can be a slave to their own passions, only the brilliant ones release themselves

I have been one
Al-one
D-one
My t-one is to be below a
Thr-one holding the sorcerer's st-one
Feeling power in my b-ones
I have been the one
Al-one
On the ph-one with no one but myself the one
While the words dr-one on and on inside my mental z-one and I wonder if this is what it's like to be a l-one ranger
A-lone
I have been one

The curious paradox is that when I accept myself just as I am,
then I can change.*
Carl Rogers


my hands can be so prosaic
uninterrupted in the mechanism of gestures
mindless, blinded, tired
of polishing the edge of the world

your hands and their delicate shiver
are used to behaving
trying to learn how to grasp the meaning,
the contours of the void in daylight
or why haters hate
(was it your fault or theirs?)

you are an unfinished landscape
of breaking points and hopeless moans,
oases of quietness,  turning points and
electrical paths, buds of mystery
I know nothing about

still, there’s something  teasing
written in between
such is coherence:  a paradox
-two interlocking  unwittingly-
irrational at one level
imaginatively reasonable at another
-reality is framed by negotiation with a god of silence-
two singularities conversing,
filling the air with space  
: it is me⁢ is you
Like when you erase me perfectly
with a blink of an eye
tired or cynical
with yourself,
or when I crush you
like a manic avalanche in
midsummer day

-there is some madness in between-

after all
shame and shamelessness
cannot be understood
in binary codes
while humility and pride
are two faces of the same coin

it’s been written  since day one
this matching choreography of turmoil inside
or just the pursued birth pains of self
-switch, twist, push, turn,
run, hide, split,
break, slip, cut
repeat, repeat, repeat –
the vertigo of life
rhyming imaginary possibilities
new gestures,
new proportions of light
and darkness
in the power of my hands
in the clarity of your voice

we approximate the truth of our last breath
grow old in stories within stories within the story
we tell ourselves to survive the crack of dawn

and so it goes:
the hero decrypting sunset
deepens the story
looking for
some freedom
to be

and I cannot look at you
without
the sonorous light
bearing tenderness
within

I set you free
in my blood
without knowing
if you stay
for today

We were not made for the world
Dreamers and poets, singers of songs
Try to describe what we see
Before it crushes us
And we hurt for everyone
And we gotta shut it down
Lest we become consumed by the pain
Of another
Not even our own

The city laughs at the proud, confident of their street smarts
They go so far
Infinity goes further
Darkness follows infinity
They will fall into the abyss
Vertigo will take over their mind
Second guessing
This is how artists are born
Subdued by the world
Knowing better than to touch a live wire
While standing in puddles of tears

I once dreamed of tracing Ghost lines
Now I do in waking life
Shadows catching shape and form of those missing
From those left behind
By candle light you are whispered
When gloaming lays still in the chilled evening air
I remember an autumn, not long ago
That made all those before it
Pale
On Equinox morning I became a wife
Two and a half years later I lost that life
Words fall short
Your arms never squeeze tight enough
hold close enough
Those that hurt
I am not made of paper mâché
I am steel, spider silk, diamond bright
With alligator skin that is all too thin
Don't ask me if I am okay
That word no longer plays a part
Focus on the silver lining
*Not on your broken heart