There is no art.
Only the scribblings of madness
Bled onto a paper or canvas
Dying to run out
To cure in the heat
Of our own light
Where it birthed
And died
In the same breath
Of each stroke
In each every hue
The story of us
leaks into the air
Onto a medium
That is set before us
on long sodden sheets
Originally white and pure
We then set apart
To begin
There is no art
Only Sin.

sea, darkness and rose buds,
running to the shore,

i hear the sharp flutes of
the waves gathering the
widening summer

(see how she draws in her
breath before
the wind….)

the sky drinks deep,
makes lanes out of
the dark where we
run to stay free, the starlight
trembles, blinks and
nods with its
silver ghosts,

those silver ghosts
of a wandering sea,
of rose-wood and darkness,

as the sea melts....

A constant buzz
Lies, just because
There isn't a truth
In being uncouth
It is just how I am
A feeling of ******
Even if I did
Still just a kid
In the gooey middle
Of every day's riddle
To stand up and be
Or finally flee

It's a long list
Bullet points
Of inanity
Insanity
Profanity
That reaches
Into the ******
of each day
and pulls out
The results
of my workings